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MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 



AM BECKMAN I ^ D ° 



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MRS. WILLIAM BECKMAN 

Author of 

"BACKSHEESH" ) ^1 / 3 

"UNCLEAN AND SPOTTED FROM THE WORLD*' 
"BECKIE'S BOOK OF BASTINGS" 
ETC., ETC. 






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When the minutes of our lives are read the 
errors and omissions will stand out as do the high 
lights in paintings. Even as they do in life's 
pictures accentuating, and in a way showing they 
help in detail. And God, the great Judge, will 
know and understand, and in the summing up of 
mortal errors and omissions no objections will be 
offered. 



Memories. 

Memories are but shadows. Only one name in 
millions will be recalled after the lapse of cen- 
turies. The balm to the soul and the solace should 
be to live so that we may not be forgotten while 
yet alive. Remembrance after death counts as 
nothing to me. But to feel that those who knew 
me long ago, who knew me when I felt that I was 
born in the dawn of the world everything seemed 
so young and beautiful, might forget the world 
changed and worn, and I — while never forgetting 
the loved, through all the dead years — might meet 
in that ' ' otherwhere ' ' only strangers. This to me 
is the dread of death. 

* * 

Why should one be content to sit in the valley 
of ignorance rather than attain the hill-crests of 
wisdom where happiness is found, and the winds 
of contentment come in joyous exultant gusts, or 
in tender, sighing lullabies that bless the way- 
farer. 




MEMORY 



POTLATCHES 






!> 



Love, like sleep, throws off the brake and life 
becomes a dream without rule or reason. -Just a 
pleasing, joyful mirage rising out of barren facts 
and sordid realities. But it is worth while to have 
lived if only for this. Even if it be like a mirage, 
nothing real or stable about it, the beauty and joy 
of love is about all that makes life endurable, and 
the heart once penetrated with the ecstasy of love 
finds, however hard the road, that it is worth 
while. 

Change. 

It means much to most mortals to get away 
from the everyday sameness of one's life, and go 
where there is variety — rubbing up against the 
edges of the world and incidentally freshening 
one's viewpoint of life, while doming in contact 
with new people, new things, while the hill-crest 
breezes fresh and strong, blow the barnacles from 
one 's mind and heart. 






W J 

fcsr I 



i 




The tail-feathers of my imaginations are not 
trailing in the dust, but, like the irridescent, 
glorious shimmer and sheen of the peacock's har- 
mony and brilliancy, my plumes are quivering and 
revelling in the domain of fancy. What exquisite 
delight comes with the beauty of waves and dips 
of my flight among the realities and wonders of 
this dear old world, and the rapture of the soul 
attuned to the harmony and undeviating stead- 
fastness of our sphere. 

; 









— 2 






MEMORY 



POTLATCHES 



Do we not all feel at some time a very shuttle 
in Fate's loom? Sent hither and back by relent- 
less, unseen hands, powerless to stop the never- 
ending sameness of weaving and filling life's web 
and woof. Mixing the rainbow tints with threads 
of gloom and sorrow, threads of love, music, 
laughter and song — woven while the heart pounds 
the strange material of which life is made into 
shape — as the years come and go. Few if any of 
us weave life's web according to our desires, in- 
exorable laws hidden and nameless as the cause 
that makes us what we are, in this world, urge us 
? against our wishes to do other than we do — life's 
unwilling, helpless ones. 




Flattery is good and helpful if administered 
properly, but I have had careless, extravagant 
people mistake me for a piece of toast, and lay it 
on as thick as butter. I am not fond of too much 
of either. 

Prudes and Hypocrites. 

Outward decency forsooth, with its face 
ashed and body unclean! Prudes and whited 
sepulchres who are shocked at the nude may be 
encased from head to toe, and innocence be un- 
covered.. The maid or matron in slit skirt is not 
the surest means of preventing street corner 
morals from going to seed. A thoughtful mind 
will find far more of the suggestive and obscene 
in the dress of today than could be imagined in 
the nude in sculpture and painting. 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

What Is Civilization? 

Men thought they were civilized when they 
sacrificed human lives to the God of Luck. Denied 
this in recent times animals and birds have been 
sacrificed to bring good luck and prosperity 
to those who claimed to be intelligent, civilized 
people. Such sacrifices were made when the foun- 
dation of the Turkish buildings were laid at the 
Chicago Exposition. Over a railroad on which I 
travelled a dozen years ago in Palestine, financed 
by Americans and their money, then but recently 
finished, the road was begun by living sacrifices 
of birds and animals that accompanied the cere- 
mony of turning over the first spadeful of earth. 
It is strange and startling in this age to know that 
almost every custom of the ancients finds counter- 
part or analogy in some custom of this time. Are 
we building roads towards the stars or just plod- 
ding over the same moving treadmill our ancestors 
trod ? Pagan superstition is not relegated entirely 
to the dark ages ; it is not easily eradicated, for 
with our civilization and enlightenment it still 
exists. 

Gyves. 
The real self frets against the gyves of civil- 
ized environments. The soul yearns for the plains, 
the deserts and hills with their unknown horizons. 
To wander with the Bedouins or rugged Tibetans 
on the roof of the world — anything rather than 
endure the eternal sameness of cities and civilza- 
tion as we feel and live it. 



MEMO R Y ' S POTLATCHES 

Wlien the conductor's baton is laid down and 
the drum or heart beats cease, when life's music 
drops from a grand crescendo and agitato to the 
faintest note or long drawn sigh of a spirit pass- 
ing from the earthly opera of primatical chorus 
and soloists, when the drop-curtain of the eyes is 
closed on the loved scenes, what then? Will the 
great Conductor and Leader take the blind, be- 
wildered and helpless one by the hand and lead 
him to a heaven of ineffable peace and rapture, 
a heaven of music without jar or discord, to a 
thrilling, buoyant infinity of harmony? 

* * 

The Springs. 

Where- the flotsam and jetsam of humanity 
go — a mixed multitude of afflicted personalities — 
youth with stiffened limbs and swollen, distorted 
fingers, and others with saffron-colored skin show- 
ing inactive and sluggish livers, grey haired 
women, and men with long beards waving in the 
sulphuric atmosphere like agitated bits of Spanish 
moss, one and all seeking relief from ills brought 
on by reckless disregard of Nature 's teachings. 

Needless Burdens. 
I threw the load of adjectives from my back 
early in life and forgot to load up heavily after- 
wards. Being of an incurably languid disposition, 
I refuse unnecessary burdens. I've never been 
given a sheaf of leaves from the goob tree, hence 
I have not found an antidote for laziness. 



5 — 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

Humor. 

Humor is like the California atmosphere that 
oozes into one's cuticle, that saturates with its 
sparkling brightness, uplifts and invigorates. 
Only humor oozes out, but is as helpful as the 
other. The two combined will make an optimist 
of anyone. 

The Aryans. 

The Aryans were a happy, playful, joyous lot 
of Pagans, and I wonder at times whether it is 
through reincarnations or the blood of some old 
Aryan ancestor that I have inherited much of their 
ideas and fancies. Like them, I worship Nature ; 
like them, I revel in the joy of living, trying to 
extract the greatest amount of pleasure from each 
passing moment. Their gods did not require much 
of penance or sacrifice, the minor deities were not 
wrathful or destroying. The sad pessimistic minor 
note that has ever stayed with the Hindus crept in 
later with the responsibility of a future 'state de- 
pending upon one's conduct. Happy old Aryans, 
indeed ! when they sang and revelled in the mere 
joy of living, without the dread of future punish- 
ment, care-free until the idea of an inexorable 
Law crept in to the mind of the teachers who 
eventually brought to their minds that "Life was 
a barren vale between the peaks of two eternities 
of woe and pain." Working its way into the 
Hindu religion, its 1 sadness has ever remained with 
them. Alas for the Aryans! happy without the 
Law, and alas for their descendants, condemned 
with it. 



— 6 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

I do not belong to the solemn order of a restless 
religion that causes its devotees to arise at two a. m. 
in order to chastise the body for housing a sinful 
spirit. In the dark and cold, the frosty hours, 
would, I fear, make me think with pleasure of a 
hotter if not a more desirable region. I would 
prefer a drop or two of the leaven of the Orient 
that would permit me to pin my prayers to any 
earthly thing that would hold them, while I, leav- 
ing them to the care of the gods, would wander 
through heavenly scenes and blazon my way to 
shrines of my own. And in the crimson and gold 
of radiant morns and fragrant eves, would delight 
in the mad revel of the soul which worships the 
Creator's handiwork — this dear old world — and 
pin my faith to the truth and stability of Nature 
as trustingly as do the Japanese their paper 
prayer, and trust the god of destiny and chance to 
keep them in place. 

* * 

Some people have genius of the confluent kind 
— it breaks out like prickly heat in summer, 
spreads as quickly, and it is as quickly cured or 
suppressed by cold applications of adverse criti- 
cism. 

* * 

Deliver me from people who are so economical 
that they laugh in one-syllabled sequences in order 
to save wrinkles and a widening of the mouth. 
Laughter leaves pleasing marks, demands a like 
return for what it gives, and is the most depend- 
able sign on earth of a happy, pleasing disposition. 






MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

Sever the fetters of facts and take a riata 
and lasso fancies and phantasms and revel in the 
unreal, forgetting the common-place and sordid- 
ness of everyday life for a time. 

* * 

Old necessity has driven man so long that the 
habit comes from our ancestors, dating hack to 
cave and cliff dwellers. And men still feeling 
the rush and urgency in their veins are ever 
goaded on with irresistable endeavor. Could they 
be satisfied with a less greedy life, devoting them- 
selves more to each day's joys rather than hoard- 
ing up each day's gain, how much better and 
happier would the world of mortals be. 

* * 
A Letter. 

I turned the old, old folios* of memory when I 
received your message of love and remembrance 
today. It was delicious, creamy, and I re-live 
again days spent in the land of Osiris, where the 
Ibis stalks and the Lotus leaves nod to the wind. 
I feel the sorry spot in my heart and the choke 
lump so deeply that the swallow will not act. I 
long for the desert, the Memnon, Thebes and 
Denderah and the tombs where in fancy I see the 
bright magnesium flashes dispel the gloom, show- 
ing the wonderful paintings and sculpture of the 
early Egyptians. I see the camels, hear the 
squeaking of the shadoofs lifting the water from 
the old river Nile and yearn for- them all, even 
as did the Israelites in their forty years of 
wanderings. 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

Run the ploughshare of truth through the 
fallow soil, and from it there will spring only- 
good results, and in the world's wide furrows 
where hearts and willing hands may drop the 
seeds of truth, love and honesty, evil will have 
scant nourishment and will be choked out and be 
as naught. The grim god of repression is always 
present and nudging the elbows of those who have 
within them thoughts, aims and aspirations 
whispering, "It is not worth while. Why work, 
why try for the uncertainties ' ' ? But stronger and 
better is the god of activity. He rules oftenest, 
and by heeding him work is play and the hours 
are not wasted. For they make the morning a 
thing of joy, the afternoon a song, the eventide 
a prayer, and of these is real life composed. All 
the rest is vain. 

* * 

She was progressive in many ways, never one 
who trailed behind or was content to follow paths 
made by more conservative people. She had 
learned the meaning of progressive matrimony 
without having a map, guide or compass. She 
progressed rapidly from weeds — which suited her 
not at all — to orange blossoms and gray et amine, 
almost had her tears ceased falling ere the sound 
of the tolling bell had ceased to ring. 

If I can write something that .someone will 
treasure in his heart as worth while when I can 
write no more, then I shall not count my labor in 
vain. 

\ 



— 9 



M E MO R Y ' S POTLATCHES 

Life. 
Life is lived but once, and youth lasts not 
overlong. Live it as best you may, mingle with 
the crowds or go in a crowd of two, without the 
disturbing personality of a third, which some- 
times intrudes into the harmony, causing a dis- 
cord, as did the third sinuous deceiver in the 
Garden of Eden. There are times when Mesdames 
Prudence and Discretion need the freedom of a 
loge seat, while two elemental world-forgetting 
young people have their milk and honey in a vine- 
shaded pergola, filled with innocent joy and for- 
getful, happily, of the omnipresent gossips who 
are ever hungry for morsels, as a flock of sparrows 
are for a bunch of street offerings. Let the young 
enjoy life. It were better for them to rip open 
the bag of knowledge and forget all but the mere 
joy of living. Wisdom often means a world of 
pain, aud the pleasures of youth seldom mean re- 
gret. Mental ballast is not always needed when 
head and heart are young. Youth has — as it 
should have — the best of life, for their 's is the 
right sense, that of laughter and singing the hours 
away. Life 'si burdens will come soon enough to 
those who are free from them, and love, if it 
lightens the way, is life's great choral symphony. 
The keynote of the dominant melody is love, not 
hate — as some would have it — but the vibrant tone 
to which the whole world is attuned. The pageant 
of poor human pride and folly may drift by like 
shadows on a dim sea, but love endures, brightens 
and sustains, lightens every burden and lines 
every shadow with ineffable light. 



10 — 






MEMORY'S POTL AT C H E S 

Life's Meaning. 

As we loiter along Life 's highways and byways 
and the years slide by, we are prone to give less 
time to the fads and fancies of the present, and 
less time to devote to new theories of the here- 
after. All the wisdom of the universe, all the 
fancies and theories matched together cannot 
Change one of God 's lasting existing laws concern- 
ing the universe or humanity. Whose plans and 
laws are the same as in the days when our an- 
cestral fishes swam in a world of waters. Prom 
the age of blackness we have a planet of activity, 
a wonderful earth that has in its evolutions, pro- 
duced man with his seemingly limitless .power 
concerning terrestrial things. "With knowledge 
we are fast arranging this earth into a place 
worthy of humanity today, and it should be suffi- 
cient to do this, and not speculate or strive to 
solve the unknowable mysteries hidden from 
mortal mind. Life is ours — the hereafter we can- 
not know. Speculation is futile. In death only 
can the mystery be solved. 



Pew care to read poetry any more. America is 
a commercial country, and one must write what 
the commercial world will take or read. 



The Imp of the perverse takes possession of 
most of us at times, and we do all sorts of odd and 
contrary things, for the pleasure of doing the 
unusual. 



11 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

Fought and Wan. 

Those who have fought poverty, sorrow and 
despair and conquered cannot forget, and there 
are scars left on the heart that time cannot efface. 
But there are also well-springs of joy that bubble 
up, refresh the soul and give it courage ; and every 
baptism from the spring of joy gives rainbow 
thoughts that uplift the heaviest heart and blesses 
the good work done. 

* * 

Mother. 

From memory's vales there comes now and then 
a breeze freighted with the fragrance of loquats, 
acacia and orange blossoms. , Dreamy, restful and 
soothing as the droning of honey-laden bees in the 
half-dreamed, half-lived hours of long ago. There 
comes, too, the recollection of the sweet springtime 
when the queen of flowers spread her prayer-rug, 
a gorgeous tapestry of bloom amid the tangle of 
green, woven in wondrous beauty for those who 
wished to kneel and give thanks to the Creator 
of all. And with the memory, as I walk, or kneel, 
comes the vision of one who loved the tender 
flowers in earth's gardens, but who long ago 
passed to a winterless, changeless garden where 
1 trust she found the dear, sweet, familiar earth 
flowers and felt that heaven was not strange . 

Some people act like nutmeg graters on our 
nerves, and wear away one's patience as rapidly 
as the grater does the nutmeg. 



— 12 — 



MEMO R Y »S POTLATCHES 

Duty. 
I am not an idealist blinded by the sun. I do 
not think it shines brighter for me than for others. 
But I am convinced of the one fact, that I can 
keep my horizon clear, that the clouds of discon- 
tent, enYy, malice and slander do not obscure the 
sunshine and good will, of charity and good-fellow- 
ship; that keep my days bright and cheerful, and 
which are as a beacon light at night. Knowing 
also that to do one's duty as it presents itself, 
without counting the cost, or without thought 
as to ultimate results means at least the road to 
peace if not happiness. 

* * 
Sleep. 

Angel of sleep, breathe on my tired lids, close 
my aching eyes and steep my brain in sweet for- 
getfulness during all the dim night hours. Let 
its somber hancls bind my brow and let my dreams 
be of peace, of the rest of rippling brooks singing 
to drooping ferns bound together with fairy cob- 
webs silvered with glittering dew drops and of 
soft shadows wherein lie coolness and rest. In 
dreams let me wander for a while among moon- 
kissed spaces and flowery upland®, that are 
a-gleam with sifting silver dust of star flashes. 
Let me rest among the great, solemn trees that 
wait in hushed expectancy the coming of the god 
of day. And thus the feverish, restless hours will 
be changed into calm, peaceful repose, dream- 
fraugbt and blissful that only you, angel of sleep, 
may give and bless in the giving. 



13 — 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

Two Faces. 

One face showed that it had looked with joy 
and admiration upon the glowing sky, and in its 
joyous lineaments shone a wholesome, happy ex- 
istence, and like the sun that had stained it with 
caresses that beams upon good and evil alike, so 
this man with his face radiating goodness and 
cordiality to one and all, made the world seem 
brighter as he wended his way happily through 
the years allotted him. The other's face seemed 
one that had grown in morbid, dank places, evil, 
antagonistic thoughts, intents and deeds had 
thrown spider-like webs over the whole counte- 
nance, surliness of disposition and ferocity of ac- 
tion were webbed together to make up an evil, 
distorted face one feared to look upon, and forced 
one to levy upon his personal stock of optimism 
in order to feel that all men were created equal, 
with good so apparent in the one and evil simply 
springing at you from the other's bestial face. 

The fools are not all dead. No, there is a new 
one born every minute; the supply is more than 
equal to the demand. And strangely enough, 
there have always been an extra number that 
have been tossed by Fate in my direction. 

It is the infinite expectations that are the charm 
and joy of youth, and it is, alas-! the limitations 
that are the horror of age. M 



14 — 







MEMORY'S PQTLATCHES 

A Shrine. 

I was glorified, satisfied and saturated by the 
vision, steeped in the ineffable charm and glory 
of it — a hallelujah and a benediction blessed me. 
The plain below a shimmering brocade of blossom, 
the peaks a glimmering glory, with foamy clouds 
lacing the mystic sheen like incense wreaths 
around some holy saint in old-world churches. A 
faint, sweet melody — the crooning songs of pines 
far away — were like magical harps in the distance, 
and came sifting through the fragrant atmosphere, 
carrying me away in waves of glorified radiance 
that left no thought or desire for aught but to 
build up a heap of stones and bow down in silent 
admiration. 

Keep me from ruthless tongues lest I measure 
their worthlessness and uselessness too closely. 
And from those who smile while unsheathing 
the poisoned rapier of malice and envy. But give 
me for friends men and women who face life 
directly — who live and want others to live — lives 
free from guile while they are wrapped about 
with the garments of contentment. 

It is easy and comfortable after all to go to a 
real image of Buddha and throw a prayer or two 
at him, knowing they have reached a destination, 
rather than offer up orisons, sending them some- 
where heavenward with an anemic force the 
means of propulsion. 



15 — 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

Day of Days. 

Let us be up and away! remembering only 
today, and abandon ourselves to the charm and 
beauty of it. Let us be as the merest children, 
forgetting worldly lore, calculating and sordid 
motives, shaking off the ghastly material things 
of daily life, and revelling in an upper strata of 
harmony and love pure as the sun-kissed snows 
on the Sierra's peaks. Knowing that we shall 
remember, until life's fires have smouldered, the 
charm and delight of freedom of an elemental 
and primitive day, and strive to be what Nature 
intended we two elemental beings to be — such as 
Wagner must have moulded and crystallized into 
Tristan and Isolde. 

* * 

I know what it means to enjoy a vacation and 
delights of "home cooking," where flies in 
platoons, pickets and reserves assaulted the hol« 
low squares of cake and pallid custard, making 
full stops on the bread, and for the good of the 
cause drowning themselves in pitchersi of hand* 
drawn milk, achieving a glorious victory without 
resistance. 

* * 

Having never been a genius at mathematics I 
do not find it easy to fathom the arithmetic of 
justice, that sentences a boy-tramp who steals a 
loaf of bread because he is hungry to twenty 
years of imprisonment, and gives a man who steals 
a quarter of a million — a trusted bank official- 
five years. 






MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

The Mocking Bird and the Man. 

Above the green earth on the topmost bough 
of a magnolia tree a mocking bird eyed me with 
indifference as I paused to hear him sing. Sway- 
ing, lifting his wings preparatory for flight, he 
suddenly darted upwards, zigzagging, turning 
somersaults in the air in ecstasy, only to drop 
down again and pour out his twittering, thrilling, 
joyous notes in rollicking imitation of other birds. 
A chorus, an orchestra in his one little throat, 
blissfully happy and demonstrating it, he sent 
showers of bird notes, seeming to know that the 
exquisite music would be appreciated by wing- 
less mortals. While he sang a man ploughing in 
a vineyard below was lashing and cursing his 
horses, poor, thin and overworked, painfully 
struggling and straining to pull the plough 
through the soil and tangled roots, doing all their 
strength would allow, helpless and quivering 
under his lashes and blasphemous words, that sent 
me away quivering and helpless, too, out of sight 
and hearing. Bird notes of praise, exquisite thrills 
and gurgles of happiness and — man made in His 
image — raising his hands to torture, and his voice 
in blasphemy, a morning of contrasts and one in 
favor of birds and beasts with a lessening respect 
for the trousered, brutal man. 

* * 

Sanctuary. 

Some women cry ' 'sanctuary' ' for themselves, 
and when safe and secure will betray and flay 
those who have not been successful as themselves. 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

Noon Time. 

I cry no longer for the far off moon, 
And grieve no more for youth's radiant glow, 

Caring less for memory's flashing stars, 
As I smilingly wander to and fro, 

Less heedless of Time's fierce blows and scars, 
For contentment is mine at Life's high noon. 

* * 

Flotsam. 

Softly and gently the heart throbbed and the 
pulse was a-rythm, soothing, lulling. The gear 
of the mind was off, and it was slackening, slow- 
ing, drifting. Consciousness, too, was unmoored, 
circling, eddying as the current might demand, 
but adrift with no real thought or care. No com- 
pelling life forces at work. Its depths and ca- 
pacities ambushed. The world forgotten in the 
submerged will and dazed mentality; just a rud- 
derless thing at beck and call of wind and waves. 
But with it all a sense of something infinitely 
sweet surged up, and then through the void amid 
darkness a shaft of light pierced the gloom, 
changing into a glorious burst of radiance, and 
there was no more night or unrest. The storm- 
tossed and earth-worn had found anchor on 
eternity's shore. 



Contrasts are the salt of life, and I have been 
pretty lucky in having salt of that kind, and the 
savor has not lost any of its value by the multi- 
plicity of the difference and changes. 



— 18 — 



MEMORY 



POTLATCHES 



Childhood's Shrine. 

Fragrant and sweet with old memories is the 
corner in the old oaken-raftered room where I 
used to sit watching the flames wreathe and en- 
twine the logs in the fire place. The tragedy of the 
wood crying, weeping, shrinking from the fiery 
tongues that licked up the tears that oozed out of 
the ends, fascinated me by their beauty ; the lam- 
bent flames filled me with ecstasy and the vision 
of star sparks flying up through the chimney to 
make, as I thought, other bright, shining stars 
in the heavens. A beautiful old room, a fire for 
dreams, for memories and fancies, the brightness 
lingers yet when the tragedies and comedies of 
life have been enacted; when the mind's colum- 
baria is filled with futile hopes, ambitions and 
loves and, though laid away, they, like childhood's 
remembrances, are lasting and unforge table as I 
walk the furrows of life. 



A kind word, a little flattery may be like a 
soap bubble that is round and beautiful to be- 
hold, but worthless in its way. Like the irri- 
desicent bubble words of praise, even if not merit- 
ed, are pleasant and help wonderfully while striv- 
ing to do one 's best going through life 's fords and 
shoals. 

* * 



"Put not new wine into old skins," yet how 
many fools there be that put old wine into new 
skin with equally disastrous results. 

\ 



19 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

Never Hurry Land. 

The lulling droning of the bees among the 
golden rod, and the songs of sweet desire of the 
thrush come from the enchanted realm of the 
Never-hurry land. Earth and air of enchanting 
rapture seem to blend into dreamy don't-care 
hours. Dalliance folds one close within her grasp, 
while the winds call in soft intonations. Faint 
multitudinous, rythmic melodies come from the 
insect world and bless the listening ears. Eyes 
follow the estatic flights of birds high in the air, 
dropping straight downward through air-holes, 
and then in joyous abandon tossing over billows 
of air swifter than the wind. One's whole being 
resting from the blows of sound back in the work- 
a-day land that perforce draws you like the intake 
of the whirlwind, a helpless straw from this 
realm of delight and new variety of thought and 
channels, back to thoughts of self and the Indian 
sickness of "Back thoughts" and "too long 
thinking. ' ' 



One marvels at the discoveries of the age and 
wonders why an overlooked portion of the human 
body — the appendix — was discovered as late as 
1886. Since then various brands of dyspepsia 
have dwindled to symptomatic dyspepsia. In times 
the appendix may dwindle and be of less import- 
ance. Just now it is the fashion, the pet and joy 
of physicians. The motor car had its birth in 
1886 also, and it has raced the appendix to the mile 
post with a close second in the death rate. 




— 20 — 



MEMO R Y ' S POTLATCHES 

Society's Dead Sea Fruit. 

It is but ashes to the taste and palls upon one 's 
senses after a while. We thread the mazes of re- 
ceptions, dances, theatres, parties and dinners and 
outdoor as well as indoor functions; we hear 
homilies and florid platitudes which are weari- 
some though innocuous. The earnest person is apt 
to be dreary, the jocose commonplace, and at the 
feasts we meet the eminently dull, or those whom 
liquids cheer who are noisy and give retold stories 
and anecdotes that have been out of service so 
long that if retired on half -pay would be a swindle. 
Conversation, if ever an art, is not the fashion. 
Warmed over humor is monotonous and debilitat- 
ing; its effect produces inertia and a disposition 
to yawn, the positive ear-mark of discourtesy, but 
not always easy to control. 

I may be part Mohammedan in this — that I 
love the color green so well. Other than that I 
am glad that I was not born in a land where men 
only pray and must — according to the Koran — 
wash before praying. As women do not count in 
the religious duties, they never pray and rarely 
wash. The women and flies of Egypt attest the 
fact of filthiness in the extreme. Superstition, 
some say, is the reason why flies are never mo- 
lested. Laziness and indifference seem nearer 
the mark, I fancy ; hence, one sees eyes half eaten 
out by sores caused by flies that are never brushed 
away. A new Koran, a cleaner religion would be 
of incalculable benefit to Egypt. 



— 21 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

It is foolish to look forward to better things. 
To wish we could all be young or "a-bornin" at 
the present time. Why not think of the past — of 
the time when our forefathers forgot and let the 
fires go out on hot nights and had to borrow coals 
the next day or eat raw food. They knew not the 
efficacy of fireless cookers, the joys of electricity, 
automobiles, aeroplanes and wonders of this age 
of achievement. One ought to be thankful for 
existence now, and deem it a privilege to have a 
seat in the gallery. Just living in these splendid 
times is worth everything, and should be sufficient 
without anticipation or complaint. 

* * 

Longings For a Voice That Is Still. 
I listen in eagerness, and your voice seems to 
come from the winds and the waves, sweet, faint 
and refreshing like the sound of bells in far away 
meadows echoing against the rim of memory. 

I've been longing for you, the exhilaration of 
your presence is like a draught of cool water to 
my thirsty being. My heart dotted and carried 
one — and in the summing up was delighted with 
the whole, for it meant June and you. 

* * 

Eve and the Apple. 
Human nature — or woman nature — is pretty 
much the same since Eve dropped^ the core of her 
pippin and ran hurriedly to the fig tree for the 
latest fashion in pinafores. 



-22 — 



MEMO R Y 'S POTLATCHES 

Needless Gifts. 

Did those who sent flowers to the dead ever 
think it worth while to send to the living kind 
thoughts, give a word of cheer or a bit of money 
to him in his hour of need and want? Flowers 
on his coffin, however fragrant, mean nothing to 
the dead. Eyes and senses that might have been 
gladdened by their brightness and perfume, the 
heart that might have been cheered by the 
thought that some one cared — that some one re- 
membered — while he lived was slighted and neg- 
lected. Ah, me, the pity of it! Post-mortem of- 
ferings are useless'; the dead do not need them. 

* * 

At the Seaside. 

An afternoon, such an one as Paul Veronese 
loved, when I sat above the crowd, away from its 
restless feet and unquiet hearts watching the sun 
glints on the ocean, the changing lights and shad- 
ows gleaming on the sparkling waters. There 
were numberless yachts gliding along, stately, 
gentient, vibrant things, responding to the way- 
ward winds, the great white sails fluttering or 
tightening as they caught the fickle gusta Then 
speeding away over the dimpling waters like joy- 
ous, animated greyhounds, eager for the race and 
coveted prize. 

* * 

Honorable failures are noble, but to double and 
fail is a crime where a few are gathered together 
and play bridge. 



— 23 — 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

There are times when I tighten up my heart 
strings and refuse to let them be played upon by 
people having imaginary woes. I have enough 
of my own — know enough of the real — that 
strains and tugs and will be with me until I pass 
beyond the sapphire rim of earthly, sordid things ; 
enough to last until the world's old gates of Time 
for me are closed forever. 

Age and Ashes. 

Life's fires have grown dim and are hidden 
beneath dull, gray ashes. The fires of love, of 
youth and its attendant brightness no longer 
gleam brightly or warm with the glowing flashes 
of joy and delight. Flames that wove and inter- 
laced threads of happiness into web and woof of 
sunbeams, a wondrous tapestry that made up the 
radiant garments of youth in its dawn of life. 
Now the tapestry is worn, faded and gray, the 
forest of glad thoughts and happy anticipations 
is one of bare branches grim, solemn and cold. 
Yet recollections of a happier youth mean much, 
and reminiscences are dear in the recalling. 
"Sorrow's crown of sorrow" is not in remember- 
ing happier things, but the crown of sorrow that 
burdens and presses its cold, heavy band on the 
foreheads of those who have not known the glad- 
ness and happiness that should be the inheritance 
of youth, when it and the world were in the 
dawning — to have no happy childhood days to 
recall — that,indeed, means sorrow's crown and its 
heavy cross as well. 



— 24 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

Music. 
There are souls who prefer the rag-time airs 
and noise of the vaudeville stage rather than the 
heaven of Beethoven, Chopin, Schumann or Bach, 
and the short-circuit repartee of a one-act than the 
poetry of Shelley or Keats. Truly of what un- 
costly material is happiness to some of us. But 
as the moon, a gleaming silver cycle, carves its 
way through foamy, fleecy clouds, so do some of 
earth's creatures love to carve, to dig and delve 
into the mysteries of music and poetry, until they 
sound the depths and heights, finding in them 
life's meaning and life's greatest joy. 

* * 
Fountains of Joy. 

The geysers of my happiness are spontaneous 
and faithful as that one recurring hourly in the 
famed and beautiful park — the Yellowstone. My 
mind, too, sends up a shower, though different, 
a shower of glorious, sparkling thoughts, wishes 
and satisfied thanks, when morning comes leap- 
ing up over the hills or when the sunbeam's last 
rays tinge the peaks with tints of rose. But my 
geysers of love and adoration do not fall earth- 
ward, but ascend to the God of Nature, the Cre- 
ator of us all. 

* * 

Many of us rear an altar to the god of achieve- 
ment and faithfully worship there. It is the only 
al f ar worth while. The altar to success and en- 
deavor. The God of the universe needs no hand- 
built altars; our heart's offerings are enough. 



25 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

A Waif. 

Appearances mean a good deal, at least the 
beggar needed no tag or label for identification. 
He seemed the very embodiment of assaulted and 
battered innocence. There was such a look of 
helplessness and hopelessness in his eyes that it 
took me by storm, and incidentally took all the 
contents of my compassion box as well as some- 
thing more substantial from my already attenu- 
ated purse. The dark moth night had spread his 
wings over him, leaving but little of light and joy 
of existence. Life's best had passed him by with 
flying feet, leaving him with his hemlock in the 
furrows. 

Love of Change. 

It is not hay fever that affects the people in 
summer, as much as the "go fever." That is a 
disease likely to attack, as it does, most mortals at 
times, and isome of us never recover or are free 
from it. 

* * 

The Trail. 

We keep our noses to the trail, follow the old 
scent, forgetful of the new and more alluring paths 
and ways, fragrant with scents of newer, fresher 
things more worthy of pursuit. Thus missing 
trophies in our dullness and set purposes faring 
farther a-field in useless endeavor, missing the best 
by the way, and thus losing the prize more often 
than otherwise in the end. 



— 26 — 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

I would prefer spending my life penning an- 
thems, rather than puzzling my brain with prob- 
lems, or in sending out messages that will not tend 
to make other people happy. 

The whites of uncooked eggs must undergo 
coagulation in the stomach. I prefer mine cooked 
and spare the stomach. Let the gas burn and at- 
tend to the coagulation process. Rawness in a lot 
of things suits me not at all. 

Some inexplicable thing in the atmosphere sank 
into my senses, rooted out memories, longings and 
desires that must have belonged to dust-blown 
ancestors ages before this thing called myself, 
knew what thought, what happiness aye — and 
sorrow, too — meant. 

Be jovial and foolish if you will, and remem- 
ber only happy things; forget the edge of your 
voice, the thinning and whitening of the hair on 
the temples, and the pale, watery circles in the 
eyes if you can. Some things were better for the 
forgetting. Let others see and know if they wish, 
but educate yourself to the possibilities of the 
recall, and you at least will live in a hypnotic 
stage and be oblivious! of age. Knowing only with- 
out doubt that the heart is young and unchanging 
in its hopes, its loves and desires. Keeping it so, 
what does the shape or the outer shell of the 
frame matter? 



27 



MEMORY'S PQTLATCHES 

Two Tramps. 
One I saw walking wearily along the path that 
ran beside the main road which was a-gleam with 
flashing, sputtering automobiles and gentler pur- 
rings of electric machines, leaving only for him 
and his burdened back the dust and smoke of 
flight. He was hope's forgotten hobo, and his 
hopeless eyes were pale, dim and milky, with the 
days that had come and gone, leaving their trace 
on the prematurely aged face and eyes. The 
years and the abundant dust of the wayside had 
eaten and made strange, pitiful etchings on the 
shrunken skin. Made in His image and likeness, 
yet apparently forgotten by God and man, he 
was one of Life's inexplicable problems we fain 
would solve but cannot, no more than we can 
tell or fathom the vagaries of the human mind. 
Another wayfarer that the tides of life had left 
high and dry seemingly on inhospitable shores, 
arrested my attention as he paused leaning with 
shaking hands on a stick for support before a 
tent wherein a palmist professed to tell one 's past, 
present and future. He, tottering with age and 
infirmity, with the future 's horizon and boundary 
line so near he need not ask concerning them, 
for even his earth-dusted eyes must see the shad- 
ows at his feet. Yet hope the swing in which we 
toss and vibrate all our lives, still swung for him. 
The past he knew, the future with its possibilities 
of love and happiness to illumine it, its gleam of 
gold and heavenly chances, drove him in, and his 
last pittance went to feed his soul on hope, rather 
than using it for his physical needs. The soul's 



28 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

demand was stronger than hunger and hope's 
beacon light flashed its beams through the dark- 
ness and despair. His face was illumined when he 
came out, deluded with a promise of better 
things, life would perhaps be more endurable. If 
so, then let hope be nourished, whatever the 
means. 

* * 

We work and toil to achieve, to attain our am- 
bitions, regretting when life's summit is reached, 
when hope's fruition is ours, that the incline is 
steep and the way short. Why not be like chil- 
dren who rush and toil for the top and then en- 
joy the slide down the incline more than the going 
up. There's wisdom in it. 

His face was lined and grooved about the eyes 
and mouth, showing plainly that he had played the 
game of life to the limit, and now was approach- 
ing the goal where luggage of all kinds must be 
left behind, except his sins, and upon them 
"excess" will be labeled, and the payment will be 
extracted even unto the last fraction. 

* * 

Keep the Pandora box of your mind closed. 
Do not allow the sins of envy or malice or covet- 
ousness to escape. But let your heart, your 
thoughts expand, grow and send broadcast to a 
needy world the sparks of love and brightness like 
a rocket sent skyward. Then, indeed, will peace 
abide with you. 

\ ' 



29 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

An Easter Day. 

Easter blessings are not necessarily found with- 
in walled enclosures. One may find them in the 
highways and byways. So I felt when I sped 
away past fields and over white-ribboned roads 
with dull care strung up somewhere behind and 
the place forgotten. But with joy along with 
me, and in its buoyant companionship I flew 
along with the ease of the birds winging their 
way overhead. All nature seemed to rejoice — an 
oratorio, a symphony came from feathered chor- 
isters, and the winds touching the taut wires strung 
along the highway sent down soft, harp-like music 
indescribably sweet and harmonious. And I — 
even as they on that first Easter morn who did 
not find Him in a temple — but abroad in the road 
felt also a blessing and a benediction on the high- 
way. 

* * 

Leisure of the spirit is as needful as rest is to 
the body, for it tires of antagonistic influences, 
and needsi to gain strength by repose, that it may 
not be too weary to accomplish its desires before 
it passes from the body. It needs encouragement ; 
its food is love; it desires to assert itself, to de- 
velop. Then give the divine nature within you a 
chance to grow and to unfold. Nurture this in- 
effable, birthless and deathless part of you that 
shall cease to be, never, the part death cannot 
touch, the immortal, changeless^ spark enclosed 
in the earth shell — which, being of the dust, shall 
return to it. 



30 



MEMORY'S POTLATC HE S 

Loving Thoughts. 
I may not have an overabundance of worldly 
goods, but I am not pampered or stinted in love and 
kindness, which, encouraged and nurtured, means 
growth and richness of life, and thank God there 
is wealth a-plenty in my heart, the wealth of lov- 
ing thoughts which is inexhaustible for my 
friends. 

* * 

She was long, lank and anemic, a Botticelli 
that spindled and went to seed without proper 
moisture or nourishment, and, like an ear of corn 
in a dry season, had not filled out. Inadvertently 
I muttered something to that effect. Evidently 
her ears were well developed, for if looks count for 
anything, I would have melted like a slug sprink- 
led with salt. Not being a slug or a mimosa bud 
I did not shrivel, but I kissed the lintel post when 
safe at home and cried "sanctuary. 



? » 



Liars use the wireless system and the C. Q. D. 
never fails. Its signals find ready replies, but 
poor old Truth plods along in its pack train time, 
and arrives usually when it is too late. 

What is the use of calling attention to our 
troubles and worries? Other people are not in- 
terested, and it is better not to give them free 
lodgings. Put them in the hurry-up wagon and 
send them away, and do not tax your memory as 
to their destination. 




-31- 






MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

Books. 

My books are as sacred to me as is the .Koran 
to all followers of Mohammed, which must be 
elevated above the floor and none may touch or 
read without legal ablution. How many, many 
books I have loaned dear to me that have come 
back marred by unclean fingers, with creased or 
turned down pages, a very profanation and cruel 
disregard of spotless purity and my generosity in 
loaning to those who care not or have the de- 
cency to appreciate the book or the owner's kind- 
ness. 

* * 

Shut In. 

I have paced up and down the walls of life, and 
while the path was pleasant, ever and ever have 
I searched for an opening through which I might 
look and perhaps find the reason and why — of 
Life 's walls and hedges, — ever hoping for a glimpse 
of something tangible, a knowledge or sign of 
happiness that might be given as a surety, some- 
thing beyond faith only, in a hereafter where we 
would know our own. 



All things come to him who waits. I am not 
a good waiter, and will take my chances at the 
head of the procession. 

Traditionally a woman was made out of a bone. 
If so, why is she called the weaker sex, when 
man was made out of the dust? 



— 32 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

The white corpuscles in our blood are to the 
system what the Irish are to the world of soldiers 
and policemen — apparently indifferent, loafing 
lazily along, yet ever on the alert for antagonists, 
always eager for a fight which is usually to a 
finish without the need of surgeons. Leucocytes 
and Irish fighters, when the war is ended, are still 
able to fight, or are beyond the need of surgery. 

* * 

Some of the thoughts of Pythagoras and his 1 
followers have slid down the centuries — wave 
thoughts — that have been transmitted and found 
lodgment with us, possibly, in these days of wire- 
less messages; and we find ourselves listening 
for the music of the spheres, of the seven wander- 
ing stars, each of which emitted a note, the com- 
bination forming harmonies of sound. Plato be- 
lieved each sphere had a siren, one who gave out 
to the others her own sweet music, and the melody 
made the heavenly harmonies. Goethe, Shake- 
speare and Milton all believed and expressed in 
various ways the idea of the music of the spheres. 
"The morning stars" sang, and the "Sons of God 
shouted for joy." Our din distraught ears may 
not be able to hear the music of the spheres, but 
at times the inner consciousness is flooded with 
harmonies that are not surely of the earth. 

* * 

Ideas that are vague and unformulated may 
become formulated and crystallized into ideals 
that will help us or teach us how to live, and be- 
come a vital force that will strengthen the mind. 

\ 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 



The Curfew. 

The curfew tolls no knell on Market Street, 
When the hungry hordes wend forth to eat ; 
Where, in the gleam and glare, poor virtue veils 

her face, 
And sin ramps forth, hot-footed for the nightly 

pace. 
The paths of prudence do not intersect the bla- 
zoned way, 
Where men, forgetful of tomorrow, or the dawn 

of day, 
Are minded only when the newsboy's clarion call 
To read "the latest/' arouses one and all. 
Then men to woes of labor go, from stalls of food 

and booze, 
To rest and dalliance sweet; the women's mind 

enthuse. 
Sin, hiding from the light of day, awaits each 

coming night, 
While virtue wakes to vain regrets when comes 

the morning 's light. 
The paths of peace and saner walks of life the 

herds remember not — 
They are as things unknown to those who 've tried 
the syncopated trot. 




I 



4 



. fW? 






— 34- 




MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

Scholars and rabbis declare Moses a myth and 
Exodus a romance. Then give us myths and ro- 
mance, for they are sweet in the learning and the 
possessor will be all the richer and better for the 
knowledge. They are like the sweet mystery of a 
miracle in a night in spring. In the bloom of 
flowers and innumerable faint odors the winds 
bring us. The mystery of growing things and also 
the mystery of our immortal souls, that are raised 
and uplifted by inexplicable and unexplainable 
things. Myths, mystery and romance feed our 
souls and nourish as food does the body. When 
life is stripped of all but Cold, hard facts it is as 
alluring as a skeleton and about as attractive. 
* * 
Duty. 

No instruments have been invented that can 
test the soul of a woman who knows her life to 
be sacrificed, to duty, as the word is understood, 
and yet is brave enough to hide her wrongs, her 
sorrows, carrying her burden of woe because of 
man-made laws and senseless orthodox rules that 
bind those whom "God hath joined together," etc. 
Custom only prescribes the welding process. There 
are many unions God would be ashamed to 
acknowledge or give his sanction if the matter 
were left to divine wisdom. 
i *^0 






. 



The cry of my heart I send to thy portal; 
Listen, oh Memory, to the prayer of a mortal, 
Heed my petition, I ask and implore thee — 
Qave back, I entreat, my loved ones to me. 



— 35 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

In Italy. 

Where the days were as white pearls,* loved 
and prized. With soft, sweet, aromatic whisper- 
ing winds that told tales of bygone loves and 
brought truant tales of soft, low pleadings from 
the cool recesses of the Borghese Gardens. Days 
as when in dreams I wandered in the gloaming, 
pacing the tree-lined paths of the Pincio, or stood 
in the shadow of the ilex trees on moon-drenched 
nights, when the garden hanging above the Porto- 
del Popolo seemed a radiant place fit for a new 
Eden, and one not suited to the old daring, ram- 
pant, reckless spirits of yore, who reveled in it 
unmindful of a reckoning, or the Lord's forgive- 
ness. 

* * 

A Supple Tongue. 

It is a pity her tongue is so supple. If she 
stammered or got stalled over her words and 
phrases there would be less mischief and scandal, 
and her friends would be much happier. 

* * 

I try to keep the Ten Commandments, but 
forget to count. I was never very good in ad- 
dition, and apt to forget what I called mournful 
numbers. 

* * 

Woman Speaker of the House. Why worry, 
the idea is not new. She has alwaysi had that honor 
when a man was sane enough to marry and install 
her as presiding officer in a home. 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

Partings. 
The farewells of youth hurt when their hearts 
are full of love and happiness. But the farewells 
of those whose heads have been whitened by the 
frosts of years, though leaving their hearts un- 
touched by Time's coldness, are the saddest of all 
living partings. 

* * 

It is a fine thing to possess a generous nature, 
and not demand or claim too much. The first 
crow in the morning of the early awakened rooster 
does not mean that the day is his exclusively be- 
cause he got ahead of the others. 

If we can deceive ourselves even a part of the 
time and forget the harmful faults we possess, 
but usually find in others, it is well. However 
we may lose faith in humanity as we view it 
passing by, we must, of necessity, keep faith in 
ourselves. Be lazy at times — God rested after 
making the world — but not slothful; work to 
achieve, not simply to be doing something. The 
snake is belied. Slander and a vile tongue be- 
long to two-legged creatures. Itsi fangs are 
poisonous and hurt, but hurt only the one wound- 
ed, but for a lie no antidote has been found. Be 
truthful to yourself. Do not imitate as do the 
monkey and parrot. Be faithful and kind, but 
not like a cur who gets kickod for his pains. 
Finally be truthful to yourself, judge yourself 
honestly, do the best for yourself and others that 

is. possible — and that is enough. 

\ 



— 37 — 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

Old things interest us now and then in this 
mad, machine hurrying age, and some of us 'think, 
especially during the Christmas holidays, of the 
legend, when holly berries; make bright our homes 
— which tells us that the berries are red because 
Baldur, the white god's blood, gushing from 
wounds inflicted by his brother, were turned into 
drops of blood. The gleaming, vivid berries mean 
to us peace, rejoicing and brotherly love instead 
of animosities. Unity and love, peace and good 
will warms the blood in our hearts when the red 
berries brighten our homes. 



Life's Underlying River. 

The great river that flows and pulses under all 
our life, the river with its ebb and flow, its pas- 
sions and turbulence of youth, quiet at times, like 
the silent river in the Mammoth Cave, and again 
like that river flowing by and under Damascus, a 
river with its ceaseless undertone singing and 
crooning under the Street called Straight. Under 
arches, mosques and minarets, ever pulsing, yet 
giving to the earth and its needs' of its fullness. 
So the river of blood is ever flowing in our veins, 
joyous, sparkling, when life's sun is brightest, 
rising to its zenith, when the soul is on tiptoe and 
life seems to hold in its infinity all the hopes, 
longings and desires of the human heart. Then 
deepening and broadening as life goes on, quieter, 
fainter, until at last the river, faithful to the end, 
sleeps, its mission is ended. 



38 — 



MEMORY'S POTLATGHES 

Ancestors. 

It does not matter greatly whether you know 
much about your ancestors. But if they had love 
in their hearts, if they were honest and true, if 
they had smiles on their lips and melody in their 
souls, these assets will come to you through years 
and years. They will, by their magic, Cause you 
to overcome much of the objectionable that life 
forces upon you as a wayfarer, who must live 
with faith in yourself, and not be too dependent 
on inherited characteristics. 



The Sacramento Valley. 

"We die out of winter in the flash of an eye 
Into Eden of earth and heaven of sky 
Sacramento's fair vale its parlors of God." 

Cuyp's green uplands and Corot's fair spring- 
time paintings ; are beautiful beyond questioning, 
but they can never equal a moment of joy for me 
as when I stand on the scented edge of a meadow 
and see the radiant gleaming myriads of flowers 
flashing in the morning sunshine. Where nature 
is ever lip to lip with youth and the sky glows 
with ethereal rose and glowing beryl. And the 
enchanted valley indents and embroiders the Coast 
line shadowy and amethystine under rose-hued 
waves of light in placid content resting unfretted 
by time — a beautiful, 

"Wonderful land where the turbulent sand 
Will burst into bloom at the touch of a hand." 



— 39 — 



MEMORY'S 



POTLATCHES 






El Camino Reale. 
A day on the King's Highway, one that had 
action and movement in it, with winds that 
crooned sleepily, that sang and called to come as 1 
they rioted among the foliage and flowers, winds 
that pushed and surged among the tall grasses 
and heavy-topped grain, bending, pressing the 
green sea of rustling, waving masses:, pushing 
them downward, then lifting them up, rebound- 
ing and undulating like an emerald sea in the sun 
glints and cloud shadows. Swiftly along the road 
to quieter nooks where the breezes sank away to 
mere whisperings, then was heard no more — 
silence — the day's siesta, rest. Onward later, with 
changing effects past fences and sign-boards that 
seemed to bark at us, they are so noisy in colors, 
while voicing the praises of certain compounds 
that are warranted to save you from the angelic 
host, though they send you to a purgative purga- 
tory by their sure and swift effects. That life is 
made bitter and nauseous by their acquaintance, 
and not lengthened, counts as nothing to the 
credulous and gullible. They are in evidence 
everywhere, were it not so the landscapes would 
not be turned into horrorscopes by the pestilen- 
tial advertiser. These, like gnats in the air, are 
objectionable when they strike the eye, but do not 
deter one from enjoying the sweetness of woods 
and fields. The fascination of the open road in 
the flowery forefront of the year is an anaesthetic, 
a narcotic, instilling delicious reveries and dreams 
in this region of natural beauty, where ones does 



— 40 — 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

not have to go far afield to catch up with heaven. 
Blest with visions in this valley that touches the 
snows on one side and spills its wealth of flowers 
on the ocean on the other, where the trees clap 
leaf hands applaudingly, and the flowers bow to 
the bird music, the orchestra hidden in leafy 
nooks, sending delicious trills, joyous mimicry 
and jerky staccato efforts that enthrall the 
worshipers of Pan, when the sap begins to run 
and one's blood gets restless and rushes to the 
moving or going centers of our being, and we 
answer the instinct that leads on pilgrimages to 
wonderful places in this altogether delightful 
State of ours. 

* * 

Strange, vague and touching thoughts come 
to us now and then, thoughts of days when the 
Druids, white-robed priests, cut the mistletoe 
branches and gave each householder a piece that 
evil might be warded from each decorated door. 
Thoughtfully we turn to the prosaic present when 
the mistletoe is reckoned a menace, a pest, and it 
is banished, save on rare occasions from our 
homes. 



George Elliott says something about putting 
on glasses to detect odors. I do not feel the need 
of glasses or anything to sharpen the sense of 
smell to detect the odors of unwashed humanity 
encountered in crowds and public places. They 
simply rear up and strike one's senses like the 
blow of a hammer. 






-.41 — 



rN 



MEMORY 



POTLATCHES 






The Yellowstone. 

I see again in memory that incomparable gorge 
of the Yellowstone where from the rim I looked 
westward towards the sun enthroned in sunset 
clouds. There were colors of blinding intensity, 
crimson, emerald, yellows, in fierce and soft gradi- 
ents splashed on and over a tinted sky where 
colors had been caught and imprisoned in the 
wonderful cleft. Stupendous torrents of color 
illumine those depths from the pine fringed lips 
of the canyon to the jade green strip of river in 
the shadowy depths. The cables of daily routine 
slip off unnoticed, the realities of life are forgot- 
ten in the marvelous silence resting on the can- 
yon's crest and the place was hostile to conversa- 
tion. An ineffable peace and softness enwrapt 
us as we steeped our souls in the beauty and un- 
changing sublimity of this Nature's stronghold 
with its enduring, unfading beauty, like one's 
ideas of eternity's unchanging glories. 



Moths. 

I have outlived the winged moth state, 
and know how to distinguish the light of the 
glorious sun from that of the candle. The tiny 
flame scorches and burns, the real, glorious light 
vivifies, enriches and aids life. The tiny candle- 
light that pierces the night's darkness allures the 
moths, and in the light-shot streets those who seek 
the intoxicants of life find in them burns, scorches 
and scars that sear the soul and burn out ambi- 
tions and desires for better and purer things. 



42 — 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

From east and west, north and south, knowledge 
and education have broadened minds, and there 
are many who have slipped the bands of super- 
stition from their forehead, and have thrown the 
burdens of ignorance and priestly rule from them, 
and are consequently reaping a peaceful harvest 
of love in open communion of universal brother- 
hood. The world is growing better because of 
tolerance and the desire of the average man to 
worship according to his understanding and of 
allowing his neighbor the same privilege. Very 
different now from the times when His pretended 
followers tortured and murdered those who failed 
to worship according to their beliefs, sacrificing 
those whom the One they professed to follow gave 
His life to save. Christianity, what crimes have 
been committed in thy name! 

* * 

There are many people who do not know how 
to live, who do not understand the true purposes 
of life or care to learn for that matter. They are 
like the birds which wing their way from tree 
and vine where fruit is plentiful, eat their fill and 
have no knowledge or care regarding tomorrow's 
supplies. People who say the world owes them a 
living and think selfishly that the world is made 
for their comfort and convenience, yet are willing 
for the other fellow to furnish them bread and 
fruit ; as indifferent to it all as are the birds. Only 
the birds, if destructive, ask no help. They depend 
on themselves and do not expect others to hunt 
or furnish their supplies. 



43 — 



MEMORY 



POTLATCHES 



The Otherwhere. 

Many longing souls there are who have 
browsed the limit of their tether until the soil is 
bare, stale and desolate. Who see ever beyond 
the length of their chains, the arras work and 
tapestry of green mosaic meadows and glowing 
uplands, of countries imagined but unknown. It 
is a part of one's inheritance to have a desire to 
get to the ' ' otherwhere, ' ' and to satisfy in change, 
the unspeakable longings for the unseen but 
wished for places. Happy those who unfettered 
have been able to see and appreciate the wonders 
of this God's footstool, — learning and loving it- 
is the very core of existence, giving one the very 
best of life, satisfaction, knowledge and content- 
ment. 

* * 

I throw wide open my windows and let out 
objectionable, useless things from my home- 
dead hopes, aspirations, jarring and discordant 
thoughts — all go out with the old year that gives 
way to the new. And in opening my window to 
let in the new I open my heart to the good, trust- 
ing that goodness and peace may abide with me, 
and through me others, too, may be helped and 
benefited. 

* * 

The Giver of Gifts gave me one of inestimable 
value, the gift of humor, that has helped me to 
laugh and smile when others would be whining or 
sniveling at the ruts or troublesome crossings that 
are found in most people 's paths through life. 






— 44 — 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

Let's drink to our castles in Spain, 
If they're only radiant bubbles, 
And the beautiful bubbles be vain; 
They are empty of sorrow and trouble. 

* * 

Illusions. 

Do not keep in the well beaten, smooth roads 
because others have beaten and smoothed them 
before you. Step out and carve a new way for 
yourself. You will at least enjoy the newness, the 
effort to make a way that is your own, and exist- 
ence will be doubly alluring because you have not 
followed, but led. It may not be easy but in so 
doing one becomes self-centered, learns to control 
the heart and mind and so keep fresh one's illu- 
sions and hopes. Love humanity, do not condemn ; 
show a bright countenance even when the frosts 
of time begin to hurt with coldness. A cheery 
word, a bright smile will not only irradiate your 
own life, but will be to others as stray bits of 
sunshine breaking through the cold and gloom 
of winter. A joyous heart knows no age. Then 
let the youth within you make itself manifest and 
the years may come and go. They cannot harm 
the youthful spirit. 

* * 

Deliver me from people who are given to 
throwing stones at other people's front windows', 
thus showing contempt for the failures and 
foibles of their neighbors. They would better be 
busy shattering worthless and dust-covered ob- 
jectionable evils hidden in their own back yards. 



— 45 — 



MEMORY 



POTLATCHES 



The Light Unfailing. 

There is something within our souls, our inner 
senses that points to an unknown but hoped for 
haven beyond this life. Even as the magnetic 
needle through storm and gloom points with 
unerring truth towards the fixed unchanging star 
— the guide which fails not — whatever the storms 
may bring. It is ever so with us, the soul's mag- 
netic needle points unerringly to God's eternal, 
imperishable radiance. * * * Then let death 
disconnect the wires and steal in unannounced. 
It will settle all vexatious questions, worries and 
fears. And the soul will find the harbor of peace 
of unfailing light and happiness. 






Outings. 
From vacations in the wilds, the woods and 
hills, the vacationists come with longings and 
waves of homesickness for the crowds, the noise 
and rush of screaming trains, motors and twin- 
kling lights. The smell of roast veal and extras 
for the prodigals are in the air. There is beauty 
and fragrance of flowers that are pleasing, — if 
not growing in the open — with delicious testable 
odors from viands telling of masterly efforts 
which are highly satisfactory to each and every 
one who has money to burn, and in the burning 
runs the scale from expectation to exhilaration 
ending in veritable orgies of abandonment to 
desires, satiation and inflamed passion. Compen- 
sations for the summer vacationist are thick from 
restaurants that lure with music and the tumult 



^^2 




46 



MEMO R Y ' S POTLATCHES 

of feeding man, where the goddess of gluttony and 
booze is in evidence, loosening the tongue and 
softening the heart, causing the devotees to un- 
burden themselves 1 , of their secrets and the secrets 
of others entrusted to them, while they, dressing 
up the dollies of dalliance, forget the straight and 
narrow paths, and make jogs and curves in the 
beaten roads leading from the haunts of food to 
the halls of pleasure, fun and frolic, enjoying 
each with renewed zest all the more for being 
deprived of them during the fancied delights of 
a summer's outing. 

* * 
Death. 

After death, what then? Now we look sky- 
ward and heavenward to the star-sprinkled firma- 
ment. In mansions prepared for us will we tread 
the star-dusted pavement and miss the soft velvety 
nights with their glorious sparks above, toward 
which we look in adoration. What can Heaven 
give us of rare beauty exceeding the sparkling 
blue dome as we watch, adore and love? 

* * 
To One Who Knows. 

I am telling you on paper as best I can and not 
with a gushing fountain pen, that my heart goes 
out to you with love and tenderness. Hoping 
life'si best may be yours, that the peace of rosy 
dawns befriend you, and the rich warm red of 
sunsets abide with you and the day and night 
bring you happiness, loVe and sweet contentment. 

-47- 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

Fawning. 

Of all the people who rub the fur of my inner 
being the wrong way there are none who can 
literally make the sparks fly like the fawning 
hypocrite. They are beguiling to many, but unlike 
Eve, I seem to sense the presence of the serpent 
and realize the poison is there, though its fangs 
be sheathed. However sweet and flattering words 
may be from false and supple tongues, I desire 
my hearing saved for words of praise or blame 
from friends whom I can trust to praise or blame 
aright. 

* * 

The toiler and laborer who works and drudges 
for us deserves gratitude as well as he does his 
wages. Like Tolstoi I believe in helping strug- 
gling humanity with encouraging words, aiding 
wherever possible, beside monetary payment. If 
we are not forced to do the hard and ugly drudg- 
ery of the world let us be considerate, encourag- 
ing and grateful to those who must do it, rather 
than feel pride and self-glorification because we 
are exempt. 

It has been asserted by some physicians that 
cancer is caused by jealousy. If so why has cancer 
increased so alarmingly in recent years? Jeal- 
ousy has always existed but there is no evidence 
that it is increasing. It is a sort of mental pto- 
maine, destroying and blighting the tender plant 
of love. It means selfishness and hatred but does 
not necessarily mean disease. 



~^_48 — 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

Venice. 
Where one 's soul turns with longings that will 
not be quieted, for the pictures, the churches, St. 
Mark's and the Piazzetta, with its pigeons, with 
their gentle carooing, settling down softly on 
ledges and sheltered nooks in the evening's tender 
light. One yearns for the colonnades and a glimpse 
of the Doge 'si Palace, to once again feast one 's eyes 
on the flame and burnished gold of the waters 
and watch the changing lights glorify the tawny 
patched sails of the boats speeding toward the 
Lido. That also burnished the black prows of the 
gondolas, and the old city that is enthralling in 
its decay, in its restless waters that come and go 
in soft musical ripples, bringing the freshness of 
the sea and carrying away the defilements of 
humanity. Ethereal lights that play on figures of 
saints, prophets and apostles, on buttress and 
cornice, curves and volutes in bewildering splen- 
dor; kissing a 5 farewell to the old campanili that 
epitomized Venetian history, a reminder of the 
past greatness and power that seemed to tell of 
the dim ages before the infant foretold came. 
Whose bells once rang out over the unchanging 
sea, the first hint of danger. Fallen and restored, 
will it ever be the same to the Venetians or to the 
stranger drawn thither to this city of rest, enriched 
with endless images, impressions and sensations? 
Where the pukies of life once so busy and pitiless 
ran riot in the building and making of the old 
city which now enthralls with its decay and 
languor. 



— 49 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

Wisdom. 

Wisdom is a defence even as money is a de- 
fence — so sayeth the book of books — yet few there 
be who seek wisdom as a defence. The pursuit of 
money is not considered the best method of pro- 
ducing longevity. Yet the "Excellency of knowl- 
edge is that it preserveth the life of him who hath 
it." Then surely the pursuit of wisdom is worth 
all endeavor. It gives freely from an inexhausti- 
ble mine to all who delve for her treasures. The 
mind cannot build with other material than it has 
in store, hence the need and efficacy of a goodly 
supply and wide range of material. The joy we 
have in exercising the intelligences and our en- 
deavor to acquire knowledge comes from the 
desire to create, to build, to fashion according to 
our ambitions'; also from a sort of reciprocity 
when one understands a wonderful piece of ma- 
chinery, the strata and soils of earth, the growth 
and expansion of trees and flowers, we seem to 



I / 



and expansion of trees and flowers, we seem to 
possess a kindred feeling, one that finds a re- 
sponse from the thing we know and understand. 

Man boasts of his strength and superiority 
over woman and goes swaggering through the 
world unhurt by his boasted burdens. Granted 
these things are his, and the gift of logic also, but 
armed with two t'si, woman can in her weakness 
gain all that she desires as a rule, with tact and 
tears she flouts superiority, strength and logic 
and wastes no idle hours in regretting their 
omission. 



— 50 — 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 



Life's Meaning. 

Life, love, joy, youth ! Life — that goes on gaily 
and unlamented by the young, Life — whose swift 
flight is often the dread of age, Life — that in its 
fullness and bounteousness fills one with inex- 
plicable joy and happiness, when its waves are at 
the crest, is indeed a fountain of joy, but the 
meaning of it — the horror that clutches the de- 
spairing heart — no mortal can realize save those 
who have heard and know in all its depths and 
intensities, the meaning of the sentence — "Life 



? ? 



Stay-at-Homes. 

The stay-at-homes are all right — if they are con- 
tent and happy — but why should they criticise 
those who love to wander at will through days of 
joy, hither and thither about the world? The bee 
buzzes its way, errant and joyous, with no appar- 
ent thought of home or the hive, yet comes back 
after happy hours laden with honey gathered from 
bright, sweet-scented flowers. The bed bug stays 
at home, blood and darkness are his delight and 
delectation — I prefer the bee. 

It Might Have Been. 

Time takes the sting out of sorrow, and re- 
grets for what might have been are vague, dreamy 
and undisturbing. Had what might have been 
become a reality, then indeed regrets would have 
been like live coals amid dull, gray ashes and 
would only have ended with life. 



51 — 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

Ambition. 

Some men will abjure every earthly hope 
and prospective happiness for the opportunity to 
be placed in the position where they may rise to 
a point of order, offer an amendment or move to 
adjourn. There are half-baked politicians elated 
with temporary importance with chanticleer 
pomposity who spend their unimportant time and 
the state's money in trying to give us laws that 
may redound to their credit by regulating the 
wearing apparel of certain human beings. The 
" being enacted' ' of the fussy member, the pream- 
bles and resolutions sifted down to few words, are 
given in this lucid style, be it enacted that "any- 
one" — the law is impartial and rises above sex — 
"shall be guilty of a misdemeanor if the hat pin 
protrudes more than half an inch. ,, This is as 
convincing and solemn as the law that forbids the 
"rich as well as the poor to sleep under bridges, 
beg on streets or steal bread." Buoyed up with 
artificial wings like children learning to swim, 
they easily get beyond their depths and forget the 
smooth ponds from which they wriggled in their 
tadpole stage. Their wings of conceit and com- 
placency avail them not when they get beyond 
their own particular pond into the vast sea of 
intellectual, sociological and economic questions. 

The gates of fun and frolic may be barred to 
the dyspeptic. But before he reached the gates 
he raced in the open and knew no barriers. Just 
knowing means something to him. 



— 52 — 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

Word Painting. 
It is worth while if one can — in writing — give 
the effect that an artist does to a picture. It is 
much indeed to arrange words and sentences, 
weaving in them color, perfume, sounds, lights 
and shadows; to transform, transpose and sketch 
with them pictures of places, things and people 
that will enable the reader to see, know and feel 
as if he were in the very heart of unknown places 
and people. Word painting gives untold joy to 
the writer who can do this with only a pen dipped 
in ink. 



Chickamauga's Park. 

The park where the main object has been to 
restore as nearly as possible the field to the condi- 
tion at the time of battle. There are three hun- 
dred monuments, some very striking in bronze, 
granite and marble commemorate deeds of hero- 
ism, and it is fitting indeed! for nowhere in the 
world has there ever been exhibited more personal 
daring, unfaltering courage and determination 
than was displayed by the rank and file of both 
armies at Chickamauga. * * * Except for the 
grim reminder of the conflict one could scarcely 
imagine that war in all its terrors had ever visited 
this peaceful locality. Now the ravages of battle 
have been effaced by nature, trees have sprung 
up and covered acres devastated by the scourge 
of war. A summer haze lay upon the land as I 
drove for hours from one point of interest to an- 
other. The Tennessee River, misty and dim, 



53 — 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

loitered along between leafy vine-draped banks in 
the distance. Farther on was a spot where people 
tread softly — where thirteen thousand Union men 
rest who fell in the battles in and around Chatta- 
nooga. Now it is a fairyland of peaceful forests 
that have sprung from the soil once blood-stained, 
showering down upon the grassy sod and quiet 
graves leaves red and brown, some "stained, as 
with wine and made bloody, and some as with 
tears. ' ' The vistas were mystic and sof t-hued in the 
dim twilight of the wooded avenues as the sun sank 
and "Bloody Pond" gleamed warm and ruddy as 
it did in the engagement where fell the brave until 
the waters were red with blood. * * * A glory 
that was almost supernatural rested on Missionary 
Ridge as I went down to the quiet city. The smoke 
that hovered over Chattanooga was not the smoke 
of battle, but from factories that mean enterprise, 
progression and contentment. It is enough. 
* * 
I am taking a large slice out of the year, appro- 
priating it to my needs and find comfort in the 
taking — days of ease — irresponsible hours — dolce 
far niente moments that are sweet in having and 
holding, they come easy and I am not defrauding 
others. Hence, feel it my right to steal. 

I'm no coward, but I know w T hen to retreat in 
order to be able to march forward again. I have 
in my make-up enough of the antennae of my orig- 
inal ancestors left to feel danger and avoid need- 
less troubles. 



— 54 — 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

The Millennium. 
"When it comes, and it may not be so far dis- 
tant as some practical souls think, there will be 
but one nation of human beings and there will be 
no dead languages to torment growing children 
and studious people. One language for all, which 
will retain the strength of the dead languages) and 
nationalities. And in the courage, honesty and 
sterling qualities coming there will be no nation- 
alities but a compounding of all the good of 
nations! and languages that now exist, and have 
existed. Wireless telegraphy and telephones will 
be the means whereby a common language will be 
known around the world. And the one that sur- 
vives will have the best of all languages combined, 
as will the race — the survival of that which is fit- 
test, retain the idealism, the mental powers and 
virtues of all existing races ; then indeed and not 
until then, will the millennium be a realization. 



I have a crucible of joy and into it all unpleas- 
ant things that come into my life are put and 
behold, they are transmitted into glowing, entranc- 
ing illusions, and those same illusions abide with 
me, making my world pleasant and habitable 
despite its counter irritants. 



Fidelity to one never causes paralysis of the 
heart to most men, or a tightening of the liga- 
ments. Men's hearts are more like rubber bands 
— fylways on the bound or rebound. 



- 




— 55 — 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

Burma. 

The Burmese are said to be the politest people 
on earth and from them not only France but all 
civilized nations might take lessons. Burma being 
the original land of women's rights may account 
for it; because in Burma a woman is man's com- 
panion and his comrade. Unveiled, untrammeled 
by caste, the women have a life of utmost free- 
dom. The home is dominated by love, the women 
having equal rights with the men, the Burma 
divorce being simply a dissolution of marriage. 
Equal rights being given to the parties wishing 
to separate, makes a husband and wife more toler- 
ant and considerate of their treatment of each 
other and careful not to give offence, but gentle 
in their treatment. There is nothing but courtesy 
and politeness in the home, and children are 
brought up in the atmosphere of kindness and 
consideration. * * * A girl marrying in Burma 
does not change her name. If she has property 
she retains it and keeps as her own all she may 
make or inherit. There is no asking for pin money 
and no ecstatic thrills over new hats. The Burma 
women dress like the men, only the women go 
without covering for the head, the men wearing 
turbans. They live placid, happy lives, equality 
in work and sure reward for each under the tropic 
sun. * * * Idle, dreamy, perhaps, but not 
vicious lives, in a land one loves to visit. A land 
that draws one to the golden-glory of Pagodas and 
green shadows of the mangos and papaya trees 
where they worship at Buddha's shrine, happily 



— 56 — 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

content with their wee brown babies, the women's 
lives are as different as if in another world than 
that of the veiled, degraded Hindus where the 
horrors of child- wives and women enslaved exists. 
The land of a multiplicity of gods with never one 
to alleviate the condition of Hindu women who 
may never pronounce a word from the sacred 
Vedas whose only ray of hope of anything better 
after life is through her husband whose slave she 
is. Happy Burma with love, freedom and equal 
rights ! would the world might learn more of them. 

Many a sensitive temperament suffers beneath 
a mask of indifference, with nerves attuned to a 
pitch that keeps them writhing and seething. 
Often at variance with their environments and 
surrounded by those who do not understand the 
passionate cravings for love and appreciation, 
they are tortured with heart-hunger and soul- 
longings and no physician may mark the cause of 
their disease. 

* * 

If one might summon and hold at will one's 
pleasures and joys, if they would abide with us 
like grief, life would not be without recompense. 
But hold them as we may, we know pleasures are 
fleeting and their glorious brightness is soon 
dimmed and only grayness left of joy's burned 
out fires. Tears of grief shut out the sunbeams 
of happiness- — there are no rainbows for tear- 
dii^med eyes. 



— 57 — 



<n 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

Veneration. 

If men could at the present time attain the 
years of Methuselah, then were age worth while 
and man would be venerated accordingly. Hu- 
manity lacks antiquity. A century counts for 
nothing in the rodeo of mundane matters. But 
think what an unfailing source of knowledge, 
interest and amusement would be ours if we could 
hear one tell tales dating back to the time of the 
troubadors who sang in the charming, romantic 
time that clings around the knights of the later 
middle ages. How eagerly we would listen to the 
tales of these- "finders," as the word troubador 
really means. Of their wanderings over the then 
known world, up to the discovery of our own 
country. 

We would be charmed if we had Methuselah to 
tell us tales dating back for over six hundred 
years, enthralled by deeds of the crusaders, hear- 
ing and marveling that the troubadors took for 
their model and method the Bible itself. In 
beauty and harmony were the songs composed by 
these sweet singers, that have come to us in mark- 
ed contrast to our coon songs, rag time, and nasal 
music of the vaudevillians of today. 

It were far better to go through life not ex- 
pecting to be a part of some great incident or acci- 
dent, but rather accepting the trivial things of 
which life is made, with joy, complacency and 
fortitude; for the gods who rule our destinies 
give unto us according to their whims and fancies. 



^-58 — 






MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

Springtime. 

The almond orchards are billowy and white 
like foaming surf surging against the base of the 
foothills which undulate in green mists above 
them. A voice in the distance comes to my listen- 
ing ears yodeling minor melodies, while along 
the road plodded Hindus turbanned and silent. 
Wondering perhaps, even as I, that they had felt 
the West calling to the East. And though having 
answered the call surely feel themselves a misfit 
in this new, buoyant, thrilling West that is yet 
young and friendly enough to welcome to its 
hospitable shores the aliens from all lands, they 
being welcomed by its people who are a part and 
parcel of the warm, generous, loving spontaneity 
of nature, and who give even as she, impartially 
to all who ask. 

* * 

J School Master. 

God, the great school-master and teacher, did 
not give us the idea of two realms, one of the 
flesh and devil, the other celestial purity. The 
churchmen have assumed and become possessed 
with the idea and taught it, acknowledging the 
power of evil over good. Happily science is cast- 
ing out these devils and is giving a friendly and 
beautiful world to man, and is making him feel 
that in its freedom from evil spirits it has a kin- 
ship with him. He is now looking forward with 
confidence to the future and trusts implicitly the 
power that brought him here will deal justly with 
him in the hereafter. 



59 — 



MEMORY'S POT LATCHES 

The Land of Odin and Thor. * 

The memories of which are as though seen in 
another and dimly remembered sphere. A vision 
of the palaces, towers and fortifications of Stock- 
holm and of an evening when our boat wound in 
and out among the islands that thickly dotted the 
waters, some with costly residences, ranging down 
to toy-like houses and camps from which came the 
sound of voices, laughter and song. Scraps from 
old ballads, from time-worn castellated walls and 
tumble-down towers, resting on the water's edge 
seemed dreamy and strange drifting down into 
this realm of beauty. It was dreamland and won- 
derland, for it seemed unreal in the misty light 
following the setting sun. A few radiant bars 
pierced the blue mists and across them was sil- 
houetted the mirage of islands, some palpitating 
with life, and glowing in one mass of flowers were 
ideal homes, others lay in the beauty of solitude, 
stretching on and on in bewildering beauty, glow- 
ing in light, or in shadows that would be the 
despair of an artist however skillful. Cuyp and 
Hobbena found such mellow evenings with broad 
stretches of wooded island and of waters, where 
birds winged their way wearily in the pale gray 
twilight. Paint odors came to us from freighted, 
woodland winds that riffled the long grasses, and 
ruffled the placid waters as we moved past these 
islands, little punctuation marks, of the Baltic Sea. 
A new moon added to the beauty of it all. Titania 
and all her forces were out and it was dreamy and 
beautiful as the night deepened and small boats 



— 60 — 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

stole from the banks, at each prow a dim light 
shone like a glow-worm while strange sounds filled 
the air, a commingling of rippling waters and wind 
among the pines, music of far-away voices and 
songs, following us until the shadowy outlines of 
fortresses and castles faded away, leaving only a 
memory — one that will be vivid and sweet woven 
with its legends and its network of dream places 
and of a palpitating, joyous life. 

Cedars of Lebanon. 

The groves indeed were God's first temples 
and in those temples what sublime thoughts must 
have come to the patriarchs — those leaders of men 
in the days when they worshiped God among the 
trees of Lebanon before the Phoenecians built the 
first temples down in Tyre. What a worship that 
must have been! amid the solemn majestic trees, in 
the early mornings and sombre evenings, with the 
dim sky showing amid the gnarled boughs and 
the red fires gleaming on the altars of heaped-up 
stones where the blood of beasts was spilt and 
smoke from the sacrificial bulls ascended to a 
well pleased god who must have seemed nearer 
to those worshipers then than to us now. 

Politeness is on the wane, it has been said men 
were once so polite they would bow to a petticoat 
hanging on a line. Petticoats are not in fashion 
now, hence politeness is dying out for lack of 
exercise. 



— 61 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

A Reminiscence of Sitka. 

Sitka, where memory loves to linger, is marvel- 
ous in its setting of shimmering waters and crystal 
air, with its distant mountains half magical, half 
mocking in their aloofness, possessing strange sub- 
tleties and charm in their remoteness and mystery, 
an alluring world of mountain ranges, of tossing 
clouds, landscapes and seascapes of marvelous 
beauty. Memories come of a warm, drowsy day that 
bursts like a blossom from the roots of summer 
and enwrapped the town and its environs. A day 
that lured us from the streets, old forts and Greek 
church and stolid Indians out to the almost tropi- 
cal beauty of the woods bordering the Indian 
River. Woods wherein were the burial mounds 
of the tribes of other days. The water sang 
strophes and lullabys, steeping one in the very 
essence of calm. There was the tongueless silence 
of dreamless dust upon which we rested, and while 
resting there came from somewhere — from no- 
where — invisible voices sweet with unformulated 
melody, but calling, calling — voices of dust blown 
nomads coming from the silence of centuries gone 
by in tones that thrilled, melted and tugged at 
one's heartstrings, playing upon one's emotions 
like the music of wind-touched memory bells. 
Strains of music as if Israfil, the angel of song, 
with his heavenly choir was hovering in the in- 
cense misted air, and sending down heavenly melo- 
dies. * * * Then again through the forest aisles 
there came songs, airs that seemed more like chants 
or echoes coming from lost voices, elusive, strange 



— 62 — 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

that kept repeating, trailing off into whisperings, 
coming as from throats that sang as the- birds with- 
out discord. Sang in minor cadences of sadness that 
had learned and imitated the wailing wind sprites 
in dust-haunted caves that were filled with the 
pathos of moaning waves ; sounds of trees swaying 
in rythmic motion with their leaves fluttering to 
soft puffs of zephyrs stirring them gently, fainter, 
softer, quiet and breathless silence. The witchery 
and strangeness of the far northern region took 
possession of me. Dormant faculties; that had 
slept perhaps for centuries awoke, and I re-lived 
primeval days entranced by the sad wailings of 
desolate beings moaning for their dead; or was 
it the wailing of lost souls; moaning, crying out in 
longings, asking to return to their loved ones by 
the dim river? Was it a hypnotic state or a 
dream ? Whatever it might be, it will be sweet in 
remembering and last when lighter things are 
long forgotten. 

Fate. 

Pate has shuffled the cards and dealt out 
pretty good hands for me, and though giving out 
blanks and useless cards occasionally, I am not 
complaining — a bluff at time works wonders — 
for what people call Luck is very often only 
Pluck. 

* * 

Petrified ideas and principles forsooth! give 
me the elastic kind that will rebound. Do not do, 
or cling to one thing forever. 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

Wanderlust. 

Some old roving ancestor is shut inside of me 
and gets the wandering fit now and then, and I 
simply must do as he dictates. Almost uncon- 
sciously I am lead into the spaces where Nature 
stands tiptoe, and with her hoary crest wreathed 
in cloud vapors, her mirror-like lakes star dusted 
in the liquid silence of the evening that is alluring, 
enchanting with green and violet colored moun- 
tains that are etched into a weird gray sky, tinted 
with rose and gold of the departing sun god. One 
evening I recall when a forgotten bit of the warm 
afterglow rested for a moment on a lone peak 
which seemed to sustain the immaculate blue 
empyrean. The great arch of the sky was un- 
stained, save here and there wreaths of vapor 
floated up into the blue were caught and torn into 
filmy nothingness on the serrated ridges. * * * 
The air was an inexhaustible draught of priceless 
cordial, invigorating and helpful. Pure physical 
delights and soul satisfying things, with delicious 
thrills of gladness enthralled me as I listened to 
the sound of murmuring streams, little ripples of 
gladness coming from the silence that are like a 
benediction. Nature may be a blind force — but in 
her blindness there is more real understanding 
than man in all his wisdom and far-seeing eye can' 
ever show. Nature that simply obeys a higher 
law than we know of, that bares her bosom to the 
loving kisses of the sun and brings forth the 
marvel of bud, blossom and fruit. It beckons and 
calls us and in the hush that lies on the world's 



— 64 — 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

uplands we may pause and think of some of the 
mistakes we make in the strenuous life below. I 
ponder and think perhaps this the roving ancestor 
in me desires me to know, and that I am to know 
also, that Nature teaches us that we crowd too 
much into our short lives, that we waste strength 
on trivialities, and let slip the greater and better 
things of life. But that we have time enough to 
do all that is intended us to do, if we only accept 
the fact that the Creator only asks this — whatever 
we do to use aright the time that is allotted us. 
* * 

Simple Life. 

I wonder if those who talk most of the simple 
life mean it. Excess in anything is not desirable, 
but there are way stations between that are pleas- 
ant. The Igorrote is a living example of the sim- 
ple life. All 4hat the men need is a pipe and a 
pup. They smoke the pipe and eat the pup — re- 
gardless of ancestral tree. The Gee string does 
not count ; he is decollete about as far as the naked 
eye can reach. He is so simple and natural that 
one is instinctively generous and hands him the 
nearest jute bag, and gladly turns from thoughts 
of simplicity and pup, to dinner and crabs that 
may not look much better, but taste like Heaven ; 
finishing a complex and gratifying repast, per- 
haps, with one of those cheeses that as a rule 
isn't fit to eat until you can't. The Igorrote 's 
simple life would scarcely do for the civilized, yet 
were there a reversion of modes, perhaps he would 
sorrow for us. 



— 65-^ 



MEMORY'S 



POTLATCHES 







Puget's Sound. 

The fields were full of a shimmering mist, and 
the mountains with their feet dabbling" in the 
sapphire waters wrapped their heads in a blue, 
misty gauze with glints of gold showing here and 
there. There were dream islands dotting the 
waters, little flecks of earth flung from the Crea- 
tor's hand, fair with Nature's purity and fidelity 
and the soul of the world seemed to brood over 
all, blessing the opal tinted dawn, giving to the 
pale green morning a welcome and greeting. And 
my soul, responding to the great soul of the world, 
finds rest and adoration in this garden of forget- 
fulness. With relaxed nerves and brain I worship 
in its silent beauty and wildness. Among great 
trees and logs which fell when the " Roman Em- 
pire fell" and silent they lie as men lie on the 
field of battle, while sounds come from musical 
little brooks, hidden away from eyes but blessing 
with their healing musical ripple, ears hurt by the 
blows of sound. And I, dreaming of days long 
gone, forgot myself and the present and dream 
that Pan, the god of the woods, was standing 
there, in sturdy solemnity ; but awakened to real- 
ity, I saw he was fashioned by Nature from the 
stump of a tree. Mosses and lichens grew on his 
clothing of bark, but his pipes were useless, silent. 
The birds piped for him, doing all in the musical 
line their little throats would allow. The soft 
winds touched the tree tops and fell in gentle 
zephyrs to caress the frail, tender plants that dig 
their little root fingers in the moist earth, brought 



u \ 



IF i 



u 











— 66 — 



MEMORY 



POTLATCHES 




to me the subtle odors of the sweet woodsy things 
about me. The winds lift the feathery fronds of 
ferns that cover the scars on mother earth's 
bosom, little flashes of sunlight come and go, 
making sudden impromptu changes in the green 
vistas, and far above those blue mists of chance 
and uncertainty where live timid denizens of the 
wood, Mount Ranier gleaming a giant wedge, 
cutting through the amethystine veil and standing 
tip-toe touched the foamy clouds — no whiter than 
its untouched snows. It was a glorious morning 
gof drifting clouds and mists lifting up from a 
world just awakened from a night of gloom. Lit- 
tle wraith wisps of vapor clung to the tops of 
trees, melting into nothingness or massed by 
wanton breezes veiling dimpled hills and glisten- 
ing streams, leaving behind dewy kisses that 
gleamed like millions of diamonds! upon myriads 
of flowers, and its moist breath on soft gray 
mosses that cling to the trees in lacy fashion and 
Mon arcades formed from the clasped and inter- 
twined arms of mottled old trees. Mistsi that roll 
and toss in expectancy, touching the lofty pines, 
sending down streamers, one strives to grasp, 
elusive and tantalizing with insistent, wordless 
call to which the soul answers if one has the love 
of beauty, and that strain of sentimentality with- 
out which life is barren of its sweetest joys. 













— 67 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

Isolation. 

However man may mix and mingle with his 
kind, however he may sacrifice himself to human- 
ity, and try to lose himself therein, or forget in 
the study and worship of nature his personality, 
he is in a large part doomed to isolation. He has 
to live and to bear as best he may the tragedy of 
his individuality. 

* * 

Progression. 

The ultimate perfect development of the earth 
may not be chimerical, for recently it has made 
such rapid strides in advancement that people 
are imbued with the spirit; most especially now 
that public schools once supposed to be an inven- 
tion of the devil are recognized to be a lasting 
institution, and one that has driven ignorance and 
superstition to the slime and morasses of darkness 
where the sun of knowledge and progression does 
not shine. Also no greater proof of development 
and progression has ever been known than the 
finding of woman by woman herself. Bound 
down by the iron gyves of brutality and ignorance, 
imbued with the idea that she had no soul, that 
her only cause for existing was to serve man as 
his slave, his property, to be treated worse than 
beasts, with no thought save for her master, and 
no right to a possible heaven that was reserved 
for man. It speaks much for women who through 



68 — 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

ages toiled without praise or commendation, with- 
out thought of possible happiness here or here- 
after, that through ages of abasement and patient 
serving she had within her that which kept her 
from utter vileness and degradation which in man 
would have resulted in bestiality and vice beyond 
imagining. Living without hope among the big- 
otries and selfishness of the males who seemed to 
think that they had free passports to heaven be- 
cause they were men, it is the marvel of marvels 
that she has advanced and made a place for her- 
self that means everything to the world as it now 
is, as it will be, for she has found her soul, her 
place in the world and will never lose it. 
* * 

My mental camera has proved invaluable and 
trustworthy in my wanderings, for I have brought 
back well developed pictures and impressions of 
places visited, that have helped me keep the spell 
of each place and the charm of the original. From 
each country are pictures indelibly fixed in mem- 
ory that are a never ending source of delight. 
Seen through eager, optimistic eyes, retaining the 
good, the instructive, the beautiful, while disre- 
garding the annoying and disagreeable things, I 
have kept the essence of each journey and found 
in each day little lyric' interludes like the bird 
notes and songs of children and memories of 
Alpine horns mixed with the downward rush of 
waters all have combined to make travel a happi- 
ness and joy. 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

The Falls of Minnehaha. 

"Among the clover-scented grass 

Among the new-mown hay, 
Among the husking of the corn 

Where drowsy poppies nod, 
"Where ill thoughts die and good are born 

Out in the fields of God." 

An idyllic beauty spot, an Indian classic hal- 
lowed in song, beautiful, but disappointing as a 
fall. But picturesque among aromatic forests 
where riotous vines festooned from tree to tree 
vie in rich red and wine tints with the vivid leaves 
of the sumac and the yellows; of the golden-rod 
and maple. The sound of dropping nuts was 
heard and rustle of falling leaves was on the 
erstwhile hunting ground of the Sioux Indians, 
Chippewas and other tribes. The French voy- 
ageurs and pioneer hosts all came vividly to my 
mind as I listened to the music of the "laughing 
waters" and mused over bygone and strenuous 
times. The blue jays scolded one another in the 
maple boughs, the robins hopped about on the 
green sward, their red breasts making vivid blots 
of color against the green. The squirrels were 
busy storing up nuts for winter's use. In hedge- 
rows and in woodland paths were clusters of blue 
and white asters, the fallow fields were rich in 
the drifted gold of Spanish needles and golden- 
rod. Everywhere were evidences of the dying o' 
the year, and surely Nature is sweetest in the 
dying, and sweet are the memories of Minnehaha 
with autumn's mellow tints and peaceful scenes. 



— 70 — 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

Egotism. 

Life has bestowed upon me much that has been 
satisfactory and worth while, but not in such a 
manner that I can attach any undue importance 
to myself. The bareness of egotism has created 
no wide-reaching deserts for me. Disappoint- 
ments and useless wishes have been mine, com- 
mendation and applause also, but my reasoning 
faculties tell me others have had the same experi- 
ence, and that I have no cause to be vain or deem 
myself blest above my kind, hence I do not feel 
isolated. * * * Most of us make life of interest 
I to ourselves according to the energy expended. 
"A charmed life" means one hewn out by the 
possessor and rarely do we find one possessing 
enviable virtues who shows a knowledge of the 
fact. The shallows ripple, the deeps are silent. 
Pleasures and wealth are very often for those who 
are on the alert to admit them when they pause at 
the door — ignored they do not always return. 
* * * The days and hours are dull or apt to be 
to those bound up in self and passive, negative 
beings have no place in my life 's • boundaries. 
Weariness and dissatisfaction of the egotists who 
have no interest outside their personality make 
them dull companions to the self-centered, and 
there is small reward in their companionship. But 
those who find joy in the deeper emotions and af- 
fections, those who forget the faults of others, 
while trying to efface their own, are sufficient 
unto themselves. They look with rapture and 
gratitude upon life made beautiful by utilized 
opportunities. 



— 71 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

My Garden. 

There are no apples of discord in my garden, 
or fruits that are forbidden. In the calm of day- 
time or in the night's silver sheen of moon glints, 
peace seems anchored and rooted in the delicious 
dream place. And I, forgetting that there are 
temptations and dissensions elsewhere, wrap the 
kimono of silence and sweet content about me, 
knowing my garden is free from the serpent's 
guile. It is latticed in with shining, silvery webs, 
the webs of honesty and candor against which 
malice and envy are powerless. I create my own 
Eden and enjoy it without restrictions, and am 
not afraid of eviction for I am not searching for 
the unknown and needless in fruit or trees, being 
content with what I have. 



A Postscript. 

I found you the dessert of my life, sweetest at 
the closing, dearest and best and worth all that 
has gone before. No more of heart-hunger now, 
no more of aches or hurts— but soul-satisfying 
content of mind making life complete. 



This old world is wise and has had abundances 
of experiences, and I am not planning to lay out 
and macadamize paths straight or crooked for its 
inhabitants. I am content to stick to my own 
foot or bridle paths without asking others to carve 
a way for me or to follow in my paths even though 
I might think "my way" fair and worth while. 



— 72 — 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

Picturesque America. 

There are many people in our Western land 
who visit the old world while they are compara- 
tively ignorant of the typically beautiful delights 
of the Pacific's rim — the last stamping grounds 
of America's picturesque and glorious West. 
Europe, which is growing richer every year in 
age, a quality that attracts us and makes us wan- 
der in softened mood among the ruins, the his- 
torical spots and art treasures of the world — has 
its foil in the West — and some of us turn from age 
to youth. The Northern Coast in its wild, fresh 
youth has the quality that turns people's hearts 
to the West to enjoy the freshness, the primeval 
newness from which the first bloom has not yet 
been brushed away by civilization. One realizes 
this in the vast, unmarred picture of perpetual 
refreshment and beauty, and once seen, it will 
linger in memory when others are forgotten. It 
is blissful to loiter along smooth roads with moist 
surfaces, a thing of delight to pedestrians, around 
bends and curves that lure one on and on, to dis- 
cover new beauties at each turn in blissful un- 
concern as to the place or the hour, but feeling 
an unwonted thrill pulsating along taut sinews, 
knowing that with each rod of beauty the germ 
of elemental happiness is multiplying with won- 
derful rapidity, and that Nature in all her moods 
is a boon companion wherein it is easy to become 
acquainted with one 's self and find it sometimes — 



73 — 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

a very satisfactory acquaintance. For the-best in 
everyone responds to the best in Nature, who 
gives as freely as she receives. * * * Another 
hour that is dear to memory, was a sail out on the 
waters, which in the sunset's flame gleamed a 
moulten mass of wine-red beauty with forests 
showing dim and ghost-like through a blue haze 
that enveloped them and lay like a fleecy, shim- 
mering veil upon the waters— a velvet heaven 
full of stars showing through the haze an enchant- 
ed world, the witchery of it filtering into the 
tissues of the heart. Then in the east, like a blaze 
of pink flame, the moon gleamed as 1 the dusk 
deepened, bathing with its radiance forests and 
gorges, touching with bright shafts the roofs of 
dwellings, where rest the toilers: — and those who 
toil not. Bathing in luminous sheen the innumer- 
able house boats and bungaloes snuggled away 
from the world's traffic amid the silent forests 
where flock the city's people, who find rest 
among the wooded fastnesses of the island flecked 
waters of the Sound and on the shores of Lake 
"Washington, living ideal lives in the short sea- 
son the climate permits. Along wild waterways 
I see lonely birds- fly by ghost-like and silent, past 
fleets of small craft with their sails looking like 
white butterflies hovering over the water. Anon 
I see strange pointed canoes gliding slowly along 
with red men paddling in silence with never an 
answering nod or look in response to salutations 
bestowed upon them. Other canoes lay on the 
sands, where the squaws and children were dig- 
ging clams or going homeward with well filled 









-.74 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

canoes in the cool of the evening, lazily drifting 
with the tide — a part and a fitting portion of their 
surroundings, with the summer slumber that lay 
upon the land, and its somnolent silence resting 
on the waters. The calmness and laziness of 
Indian summer enshrouding the landscape in its 
dream-like loveliness. 

Cypress Point, Monterey. 

A place where one is not disposed to be eco- 
nomical of time, but enjoys an idle restfulness, 
loitering along the rugged coast, with its strange 
formations, architectural designs wrought by the 
winds and the lash of the ocean's wave, notched, 
jagged and suggesting the awful power of the 
waters ever surging up in mad endeavor to break 
away the barriers. 

Pictures of undefinable beauty show through 
rents in the fog veils that wreath dim distances, 
the winds caress and soothe in soft touches, then 
sigh themselves to sleep among the hoary trees — 
aliens of their kind — that are wonderfully im- 
pressive in their weird, solemn grandeur. There 
is harmony of color, the limitless horizon, lifting 
and falling of waves, the chirp and chatter of 
squirrels, and cry of lonely gulls are heard on 
the jutting crags. Unf orgetable scenes are etched 
into lines that make pictures of strange, lovable 
brightness, and the voices of the winds crooning 
amid the cypress trees seem calling one from the 
tumult of the world to an infinity of rest amid 
th^ir solemn recesses. 



— 75 — 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

The Fairies. 

The good fairies that scattered the seeds of 
love and kindness in the human heart did not find 
the soil responsive and generous as did those who 
were entrusted with the seeds of fruits, flowers, 
grain and trees. These, scattering their inesti- 
mable bounties broadcast over the wide, wide 
world, found earth's soil warm, rich and true. 
True, because ever and always the seed gives 
back its kind, cycle after cycle the flowers bloom, 
the trees grow, each his own particular kind as in 
the first sowing. The edelweiss and snow plant 
cling unchangingly to their frost borders, and the 
palm and cacti are wedded to the sun lands and 
desert sands. The pines;, whether on the moun- 
tain tops or down on the slopes, kissing hands to 
each other, are ever the same pine or fir tree. No 
miscegenation or mixing. * * * . The poppy 
and golden-rod flaunt the yellow of their species 
with never an interchange of identity. It is left 
almost to humanity to change, to mingle to lose 
identity, not remaining true to any one particular 
type, physically or mentally. We try to cultivate 
individuality, to be just and true, try to nurture 
good thoughts and high aspirations, try to be 
steadfast in our loves, friendships and associa- 
tions, yet each one knows deep down in his heart 
that a word or look not according to his liking 
will change the mental status in .a moment's time 
and that hate or dislike is ever ready and on the 
alert to spring into vigorous action downing the 
better emotions. This probably explains our wor- 



— 76 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

ship of Nature. For the dear Mother Earth gives 
us steadfastness, blesses us with her never-ending 
wealth of bud, blossom and the fullness of the 
harvest faithful forever. 

* * 
An Autumn Day on Lookout Mountain. 

A day that etched itself in memory as I looked 
down that mountain and thought of the battle 
among the clouds, broken into deep ravines s<teeps 
and slopes and precipitous cliffs where four thou- 
sand of our infantry men forced their way up the 
steep declivities, crawling on hands and knees in 
the fierce blast of a storm of musketry in the hands 
of the enemy. Huge boulders were hurled down 
upon them, the fog and mist helped and — Jackson 
blundered — else Old Glory might not have been 
planted there as it was later on in the day of 
battle. Each side fought with bravery and des- 
peration, that one should be vanquished was in- 
evitable but oh! the pity of it all! It seemed to 
me that Nature was grieving over it on that warm 
bright day so near the time of the year when 
thousands laid down their lives in the turmoil of 
battle. Some small shrubs attracted my attention, 
the upper part of the leaves were a rich crimson, 
the under a delicate gray, and, fluttering in the 
winds they curiously enough turned the gray side 
upward to the smiling skies. The gray facing the 
blue of heaven, the red toward the earth where 
the crimson blood of the Blue and the Gray tinged 
the soil where the dying closed their weary eyes 
looking their last farewell on such scenes as these. 



— 77 — 



ME MORY'S POTLATCHES 

The Eleusinian Way. 
However much one enjoys Athens, the Parthe- 
non and its ruins— rich in historical value as are 
the whole environs — one cannot but wish for the 
days long gone and feel a desire, a longing to cut 
down the phalanx of years and travel with the 
initiated along the Eleusinian Way, and yearn to 
he one of the procession, carrying baskets of poppy 
seeds — with singing and incense — to be as a god 
and incapable of tears, holding fast the soothing, 
sleep-giving poppies. Lulled by the sound of the 
sacred water running from the cave of the 
nymphs, listening to the busy chatter of the sun- 
burnt grasshoppers and the dreamy droning of 
honey-laden bees and faint chirping of birds in 
the hedges and groves of Daphne, with the wind 
flapping the waves against the rocks. To be a part 
of the procession and imbibe their mythsi and 
mystic rites and know something of the Greek 
religion where the "worship of sorrow," as Goethe 
puts it, is sometimes supposed to have had no 
place in the religion of the Greeks— would be 
worth while. Theirs was a religion of pure ideals 
and conception, a religion of cheerfulness and 
worship by an untroubled, unreflecting humanity ; 
conscious of no deeper needs of the embodiments 
of its joyous activity. Surely a religion soothing 
and helpful. Helping year- weighted people to for- 
get traces of decay and gloomy forebodings, they 
worked and tried by a subtle alchemy to extract 
tranquility and beauty out of life, and in their 



78 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

world of fanciful myths, their gods and goddesses, 
they were joyous, art-loving, life-loving people 
one would be glad to mingle with; enjoying the 
company of their gods, myths and mysticisms, 
then doubtless find Contentment afterwards 
among a world of real men and women. 

In Egypt. 

If I were a Gerome I might give an idea of the 
violet-tinted atmosphere of Egypt, and of the world 
of strangeness as I see it from Shepherd's Hotel 
in Cairo, where life is seen in all its phases ; where 
British garb and Highland kilts seem strangely 
out of place in this region of latticed windows, 
of turban, red fez and veiled faces. I gaze 
at the donkeys 1 , clipped, painted in stripes, looking 
like circus animals, with never a frisky or shy 
manner to accord with the coloring. But plodding 
solemnly along while the donkey boys prance be- 
side them, clothed in long, woolen shirts and 
striped turbans. On the Nile what visions come 
to me. The cradle of Moses! Cleopatra's barge 
and the pyramids! — solid, not visionary — show- 
ing dimly through shades of violet hovering over 
the tawny desert. A desert where one does not/ 
miss the forest as at home. They are not needed 
as accessories to the picture. The palms with the 
long, bare trunks topped by waving fronds, are 
in keeping with the long legged camels and bare, 
brown legs of the people, are cut like cameos 
against the dun-colored, silent desert, and are 
like\ phantom pictures. 



— 79 — 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

The Poppies' Lesson. 

Poppy leaves lasting for a day, tossed by er- 
rant winds and fluttering in a sun-warmed riot 
of color; poppies that bared their hearts to the 
caresses of the sun, flushing, radiant in their glow- 
ing beauty that held all the glory of color and 
richness their evanescent beauty could show. And 
though evanescent in their beauty, like brilliant 
dreams that float on the waves of sleep, surely it 
is not in vain, for Nature makes no mistakes. They 
are Pagans, flagrant Parsees worshipping the 
sun and reflecting its glory — but it is worth while 
if only for a day to be like a Parsee — a poppy — 
and unfold one's heart and feel the beauty, the 
warmth, power and glamour of the god of love. 
If that fails and the heart does not know of the 
unfolding and wondrous power, then life's best 
and greatest gift has gone astray. If love has 
failed, then let Atropos come through the sun 
glints or moonbeams, and with scissors cut the 
golden threads of life — for it is not worth the 
living. 

* * 

The debt of gratitude I owe may be outlawed 
by the statute of limitations long ago, but there 
is a natural law that knows no limitation, that 
time can never change or outlaw — the law of 
loyalty and love to my friends. And you, friend 
of mine, can never be so far away, please God, 
that my love, trust and gratitude cannot reach 
you. 



80 — 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

In the Valley of the Jordan. 

"Content to know the journey is not long, 
That soon though we depart or stray a-wrong, 
The caravan is creeping toward the goal 
And we have cheered the noon halt with a song." 

Having seen I can never forget the strange- 
ness of the motley throngs of people, the long 
lines of heavily burdened camels, the insistent, 
persistent noises and conglomeration of men, of 
languages and races strangely crossing and re- 
crossing in vivid confusion. Again as in a vision 
I see men in long, flowing robes looking like 
bronze statues on magnificent Arabian steeds, 
with lances at rest and arms upraised praying to 
Allah, with faces uplifted to the skies, are strange- 
ly fitting in the lonely wilderness — human, yet 
mysterious and in keeping with the broken towers, 
ruined arches, crumbling minarets and dusky 
Bedouin tents "that seemed unreal, filling one with 
a sense of remoteness and desolation. 

And stranger still, from unseen spaces, came 
the cry, "Allah, God of my Father's and God of 
my own, hear thou the cry of my heart. ' ' Thrilling, 
touching the heart-strings as it came from the 
desert that spread out into infinity; fascinating 
in its loneliness and impenetrable depths of wick- 
edness, misery and gloom that was like crime in 
its sheer desolation — that was like the outer dark- 
ness spoken of in the Bible. 

The stars burned low above the tents, from 
which peered swarthy Bedouin faces ; dogs were 
barking, camels were resting under their heavy 



— 81 





a. 



MEMORY'S POTLATC.HES 

burdens by the tents, while inside were the 
women, children and horses. Squalor and filth 
lay like a curse about me, the heritage of the 
desert; dreariness, harshness and privations were 
theirs ; they seemed a black spot— God's mistake in 
the plan of creation. Wandering in earth's deso- 
late spaces the region of drifting sands, of sun- 
burnt ways of the wilderness, where life and its 
necessities are traversed by paths' along which 
are glistening bones of things that found oblivion 
in the arid wastes. Scorched by the east winds 
that have made havoc in the region of Jericho 
ever since the beginning. 

Encased in their pride of worship the Mo- 
hammedan looks with measureless hatred upon 
one of our creed, and, proud of their belief in 
Allah and his right dealing with them, they are 
ever ready to kill or plunder an unbeliever. What- 
ever their beliefs, one can but respect a religion 
that is as unlike our hfilf -hearted prayers as our 
lives, our aims and aspirations are from the mys- 
tical lives they lead. That makes them carry their 
prayer rugs with them, whereon they prostrate 
themselves and send forth invocations from desert 
places, from house-tops and minarets above roofs, 
down to sleeping palms below. 

Unconsciously I found myself repeating some- 
thing from the ancient Aryan scriptures. "In the 
beginning there arose the source of golden light. 
He was the only Lord of all^all that is, whose 
^shadow is immortality, whose shadow is death." 
Surely the shadow of death rests by the Dead Sea 
and on phantom-like Nebo. Where are the tribes 

-82-, 





MEMORY'S 



POTLATCHES 



of other days ? They are blotted from the face of 
the earth, and there remains only these dusky 
wanderers, and for them ineffable pathos and 
sadness, too, hopeless for consolation. 



"~~ ""TB 



'if: - ' 



A Message. 
If I had the wishing hat of Fortunates I would 
wish to be with you. I should not care where or 
what the place might be — if only with you ! Then 
the hat might be tossed into space, and nevermore 
would I care to find it. The curtains of yesterday 
would drop down and those of tomorrow roll up, 
and in the sanctuary of your presence I would 
seek no otherwhere, and would not plead with the 
gods for a kingdom to rule. For we would not 
care to seek further, knowing our kingdom of 
happiness was large enough for two. And the 
sapphire dome above would bless and comfort us 
in the kingdom our love had created. It would 
belong to us, and we would be in possession of the 
most priceless estate that God has ever given to 
mortals — the kingdom of love. 



Fame, a bubble that blesses for a moment with 
its radiant beauty that a breath of envy or jeal- 
ousy blights with hot breath before the heart al- 
most has felt its balm. And love? what does it 
mean after all but a gleaming, irridescent drop of 
dew that is scorched by the arid winds of indif- 
ference and forgetfulness or turned into the slough 
of woe. 




^ 



♦s^ 



83 — 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

Memory Walks With Me. - 
In fancy I wander in lands again where my 
willing feet have trod, and whether in fancy or in 
dreams, it is sweet to return and be in places 
that draw the soul as the moon does the sea. 
Often I thus walk through the matchless scenery 
along the crescent-shaped bay and on the heights 
at Castellamare where Tasso once walked, and feel 
as did he while looking at the beautiful, unchang- 
ing panorama spread out before me — that "Nature 
alone has eternal youth. " For I see and enjoy 
the same scenes that while ever new and engross- 
ing in tints and coloring, yet is ever unchanged in 
contour and form. 

In fancy I hear the rythm of waters laving the 
shore along the Esplanade at Amalfi mixed and 
intermingled with the strange, fateful and en- 
trancing songs of the Italian fishermen singing 
out on the unrivaled and glorious bay from whose 
celestial waters they draw the finny food. I look 
out on this earthly paradise again from Pozzuoli 
that Saint Paul saw on his way to Rome and 
thoughts of Nero here in this fair region, planning 
the death of his mother are like blots on a beau- 
tiful picture, and fancy marvels at the sin and 
evil of a human heart that the heavenly beauty of 
scenes like this could not control or efface. * * * 
In fancy I am again in Rome and push aside the 
heavy leathern curtain and through the incense- 
misted air see again the high altar of Saint Peter's. 
Again I wander out on the Campagna and pause 
by the Catacombs, hearkening for voices that 



— 84 — 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

might perchance break the frail bars of sleep that 
sever the dead from us. * * * Only to be again 
conscious of the witchery and peace of the place, to 
feel the mystery of the past, to sense the pain and 
joy of lives that knew friendship, love and hate, 
and feel one's self a part of the ruins that takes 
such strange hold upon one's being, bringing the 
feeling that at some time one's heart loved and 
beat with joy amid these old but new scenes. 



Tamalpais. 
The blue coast range and the distant ocean 
glinting in the radiant light make a fitting frame 
for the flower-bedecked plain where were splashes 
of snowy white flowers and acres of lupins with 
bands of anemones — baby-blue eyes — mixed with 
red and purple blossoms, veritable rainbow tints 
gleaming in gorgeous colorings on the earth below. 
The orchards, one mass of pink and white bloom, 
looking like masses of tinted snow heaped on an 
emerald carpet. The larks, with breasts! vieing 
with the yellow poppies, and blue birds, with 
wings of heaven's coloring, were winging and 
singing their way through this paradise of sweet- 
ness. The skies gleaming with ethereal ruby and 
glowing beryl above the shadowy, misty ame- 
thystine sea, terraces and ravines bathed in chang- 
ing waves of light, elates one with a sense of in- 
toxication, the body is refreshed by hours spent on 
the heights, and one finds a physical and mental 
tonic that is strengthening and re-vivifying. 



— 85 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

California. 

Father Crespi, in 1770, gave to California the 
melodious Spanish names to places where he en- 
camped in his travels. We ought to erect a monu- 
ment to him who gave us these names which make 
our State different and distinct from other states, 
and equally condemn and change the names the 
miners gave to the Sierra's slopes, gulches and 
towns. What visions the old missions conjure up ! 
How we love to muse over days gone by in visit- 
ing them. Carmel Mission, the valley and beau- 
tiful bay, Santa Lucia Mountains and pine forest 
and Cypress Point are crystallized dreams. Los 
Dolores, "Brook of Sorrows," choked and lost by 
drifting sands. San Juan Capistrano partly wrecked 
by earthquake in 1812, is, pathetic and appealing, 
with its palms and cactus-grown ruins, its warped 
and twisted pepper trees and grapevines that 
throw loving tendrils about the adobe walls, that 
are to me like the crumbling mud-dried walls and 
houses of Damascus. The crude paintings of 
heaven and hell are dim, the bells are silent that 
once rang out, the Angelus at eventide, and tremb- 
ling neophytes were brightened and cheered by the 
sound which caused the evil spirits to flee away. 
Better so — silent and broken — than the sound 
from some half restored and wholly unimproved 
Mission that bespeaks the effort of the present. 
It is far better to keep our ruins and preserve 
them as they do in Egypt than attempted restora- 
tion and eliminating landmarks it is well worth 
while to keep. Rome keeps her Coliseum, her 



— 86 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

Forum and Maritime Prison where Peter and 
Paul were imprisoned. Might we not as well keep 
and prserve the ruins of Missions that dotted 
El Camino Reale from north to south in our vast 
State and hold them dear as we did the memory 
of their founder, Junipero Serra? 

Give freely to suffering humanity in kindness 
and sympathy for those who are in need, and not 
as a sort of "fire insurance" against the possi- 
bility of a plausible purgatory hereafter. 

* * 

We of the free and untrammelled West, unre- 
stricted by rigid conventionalities, are happy in 
living where we may use our own judgment re- 
garding dress, moral opinion and physical needs 
without considering whether we are violating the 
ethics as to what standard they might belong. 
Each soul claims the right and privilege of at- 
tending to self first, then if it suits, follow the 
prevailing fashions in cos turnery, general deport- 
ment and good conduct ; and still not be a pariah 
or a freak if one is nervy enough to be natural, 
as we usually are in the breezy West. To be one 's 
own self and live one's own life according to de- 
sires, and not arbitrary or set rules, to feel the 
call of the great, generous land from its snow- 
crested peaks to its fruitful valleys, brings out all 
that is best in us for its stability and steadfast- 
ness, beauty and grandeur, uplifts and purifies 
from the dross and ills of life. 



87 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

The Cliff Dwellers of San Francisco. 

Memories of an evening spent with the cliff 
dwellers of San Francisco, a radiant evening with 
a tang of salt atmosphere from the breakers beat- 
ing, dabbling and washing the feet of the city be- 
low, a city that seemed unreal viewed through the 
veil of mist, softening its brilliant streets and tow- 
ering, scintillating buildings. Fragrant and mys- 
terious came the odors from unseen places of 
mignonette, heliotrope and roses, incense wafted 
out over the opaline waters of the island-sprinkled 
bay, with its land-locked waters, and shores gleam- 
ing with myriads of lights coming from homes that 
at least in the twilight are not commonplace. There 
are many beautiful homes with the winsome grace 
of the Orient built by those whose fancies have 
turned further back than those of our New World's 
architectural buildings, and have fashioned out of 
the dead and buried — but resurrected past — from 
the cliff dwellers' homes like these of which I 
write. Fashioned after the cliff dwellers, and 
though safety from foes is 1 not the need now, the 
paramount idea is isoluation and rest, with the 
satisfying pleasure of being away from the 
crowds, the turmoil of the street, amid visions of 
beauty — so nearer the stars. 

And yet who can fathom the strange incon- 
sistencies of life and the vagaries of the human 
mind? The fascination of fiery, squirming, elec- 
tric serpents far down the slope, drew the cliff- 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

dwellers from the heights down to earth's depths. 
Curious Eves and indulgent Adams were drawn 
from the heavenly scenes by the lure of the ser- 
pent — from Michael Angelo's Heaven to Dante's 
Inferno, from the heights to the city's cellars; 
from feasts of the gods to an orgie of beer! In- 
effacable pictures and unforgetable lessons, con- 
trasts that will ever give food for thought, be- 
cause we enjoy things by contrast. And some of 
us came away with hearts of thankfulness to a 
kind heaven that had been merciful, giving us the 
heights instead of the slums, the sunlit valleys of 
peace and happiness rather than life in vice- 
, haunted dens where degradation and bestiality are 
rampant; where the innocent are lured to de- 
struction and escape impossible! A look of in- 
finite yearning for something better flashed from 
the eyes of one young, yet old enough to realize 
<her condition, and with it a world of weariness and 
loathing, plain as though spoken, left a sore spot 
in my heart and an infinite compassion for her. 
In the great day of judgment what an accounting 
there will be for these souls mantled in glory that 
have been sold to the world and soiled by its mire. 

* * 

It has been said that with money one can buy 
everything but happiness — a pure bluff! If you 
haven't money you cannot buy anything; without 
food, shelter or clothing there can be no happi- 
ness. With these there can be at least content- 
ment, which is a twin of happiness, and with it 
one! has about all one can expect in this world. 



— 89 — 



o 









MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 



Wanted, 

I would be so happy to have you with ine, 
friend o' mine, that in case of scarcity and a 
crowd I'd be generous and feed you off my own 
plate. Not so with one who came unsolicited re- 
cently, who bruised my unwilling ears about paths 
of rectitude other people should make, while being 
indifferent about his own. Willingly would I have 
consigned him to that place we read of where he 
might be kept busy raking cinders on the trails. 
Truly, like Jehoran the King of Judah in Chron- 
icles, "He departed without being desired." 



The Pyramid of Cheops. 

From the summit of Cheops I saw the broad, 
undulating desert with its heaps of broken ma- 
sonry, yawning pits, rifts showing here and there, 
and the number of smaller pyramids that can only 
be appreciated from the top. The Sierra-like ridges 
of distant hills, Cairo, Mokattam, the Citadel and 
glittering domes and minarets show clearly as if 
at our feet. There were the gray-green palm 
groves and the emerald, fertile valley which I 
appreciated for the first time, in all its blossom- 
ing beauty, beating up against the sands, the 
living, joyous stretch of river keeping back the 
drifting sands that seems the very embodiment 
of death and desolation. 

Other pyramids appear in the distance, and 
there were Memphis and Heliopolis, and brooding 
over the country was the mystery of dea*6h. The 



— 90 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

sun illumines the hot, dry sands and the territory 
of the dead. And while I look the shadows of the 
pyramids tell me it is time to leave. We pass 
through fields green and blossoming with flowers, 
where the camels go with such heavy burdens, and 
the long-necked, black buffaloes work in the 
fields or stand in the water of the canals. Men 
and women in long, loose robes, veiled and tur- 
banned, add to the strangeness of the scene. Twi- 
light — the pictures fade— the day is done. 



The Sphinx — A Reverie. 

In the half-light of the afternoon's glow I saw 
the strange mysterious figure, part couchant and 
partly buried in the drifting sands. What strange 
days, and stranger nights have brightened and 
shadowed that passive face that seemed waiting in 
silence mysterious and sublime. I forgot Time as 
I stood before that mighty face, older than the 
pyramids, resting on that lonely desert where no 
single blade of grass or thing of life is known; 
gazing ever eastward where the sun breaks the 
gray mists that hover over the silvery, winding 
Nile, and the moving, animated life. The breath 
from fragrant fields is wafted up here to this 
helpless form through balmy evenings and moon- 
silvered nights. A touch brings me back to Life 's 
realities, and I am led to the kneeling camel, a 
great white beast — Rameses II, they call him — 
a-nd we go back to the city from that ghostly 
region. 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

The Plains of Moab. 

From the Jordan- 1 looked toward Nebo and 
Pisgah, where Moses climbed from the plains of 
Moab. And I think of Him who was bnried in a 
valley against "Beth-peon" Among the cool lush 
grasses and fair, sweet blossoms where the waters 
from "Ayun Musa" — Springs of Moses — clear and 
cold, glide down from the mountain side. What 
peace, what ineffable rest and delight ! After the 
desert, after forty years of wandering in sun- 
parched arid places. A servant of His Master, 
the great Lawyer's grave is where? No man 
knoweth — only Grod and his angels know, and 
may in triumph tell when the last call, "Come," 
is wafted in musical cadence, and death and mys- 
tery ahall be no more. 

* * 
The Nile. 

An evening that burnt itself in memory when 
the fellaheen wended their way homeward under 
the dark shadows of the palm trees, their bare 
feet as brown as the dust they kicked up on the 
borders of the Nile, which eddied with a strange 
radiance, gleaming a pale golden color, then the 
ripples caught a gleam of fire, shading off into 
shades of mauve and amethyst. Wrapped in its 
filmy veil it gave one the idea of ethereal loveli- 
ness and voluptuousness also. Then there came 
the sound of music, and the words, "Allah, il 
Allah," traveled over the waters from drifting 
feluccas, throbbing monotonous sounds of the 
beating on a daraboukeh, tones insistent and call- 



— 92 — 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

ing, calling — the East with its centuries of re- 
pression — calling the West to its sensual, dreamy, 
subtle barbarity, entreating one to wring all pos- 
sible joy and happiness from the fleeting years. 
Calling one to dusky temples wherein were 
strange idols enfolded by the enduring mystery 
of Egypt. Low chantings filled with a strange, 
expressive sadness, a murmur of voices — spirits 
lurking in the shadows of the Tombs of the Kings. 
Crying, sobbing in heart-sore tones over desecrat- 
ed corridors and vacant Tombs. Is it from souls 
that are supposed to return after a thousand years 
that have come and are vainly seeking tjhear 
bodies? Bo they keep vigil over the places they 
love? grieving in weird, unearthly tones that hold 
something thrilling and touching, and held notes 
with the yearnings and longings that spoke, too, 
of the cruelty of the world, that held no healings 
for grievous wounds. That seem also to demand 
of one to get the best of life — Pagan, unbeliever 
or Christian, what matter — only this, to enjoy the 
best life gives in its brief space ere it swings out 
over the uttermost verge into the mysteries un- 
solved. 



I am a firm believer in hygienic principles. 
There is nothing so unhygienic as to sit down and 
be content in doing nothing. A satisfied failure 
suits me not. I. am thoroughly hygienic — I believe 
in action. My life shall at least not be an effort- 
less one. There is something pleasurable in the 
thought I have done what I could. 



— 93 — 



MEMORY'S POTLATCH.ES 

Battleships. 

One does not look for battleships in the woods 
or in sheds, yet I have found two ships so placed, — 
strangely interesting. One was in a park on Lake 
Washington among a group of totem poles from 
the Northland, representing the history, religions 
and legends of a race of Indians. The aboriginal 
battleship or quaint Indian war canoe, seemed in 
a way to have found a fitting resting place among 
the trees and totems. The scarred old ship was 
a very fascinating relic of times gone by. It re- 
quired a whole tribe six months to hew and shape 
the one great tree with stone chisels and hammers 
—their only tools — into a war canoe. It carried 
forty warriors to war, and its scars show the 
marks of battle. It is the greatest relic of abo- 
riginal life in America, and in looking upon its 
battle-scarred sides, its strange, uplifted prow, I 
felt a vague regret that it and the totems had 
found a grave amid civilization. It was to me as 
pathetic as was the old Viking ship stored under a 
shed, which I saw in Christiania, Norway. In this 
ship the Viking Chief had made his last voyage, 
and, after death, he with his treasures was sealed 
up in this sepulchre. His oars and chieftain's 
chair with him, the prow pointing seaward all in 
readiness for Odin's call to sail away on the beau- 
tiful sea. A wave of sorrow thrilled me that in 
the interest of science and research it had to be 
exhumed. And mute, torn and rent, it will for & 
few years only be left for the careless eye of the 
unappreciative tourist. Both ships stand for an 



94 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

older day, relics that should be kept inviolate, 
hat vandalism and civilization represented in dol- 
,lars and cents, and — progress as some call it — 
tagging* on like the tail of a kite to balance things, 
sweep away relics that cannot be duplicated. * * * 
Laughed the brook for my delight as I fol- 
lowed it in reminiscent mood until suddenly I 
stood on the green borders of Lake Washington, 
and in a moment forgot paganism in a touch of 
realism. Red men, Vikings and antiquities van- 
ished like fog wraiths in a morning sun, for there 
on the shimmering, sparkling waters lay a number 
of our warships in the harbor. In gray massive- 
ness they rested like great, floating monsters of 
the deep. What a vivid contrast to the scenes left 
behind — a vision to stir the blood and arouse the 
enthusiasm of any soul who has pride and love of 
country in his heart. 

* * 

The sweetest flowers do not always grow 
closest to the ground. The faint perfume of the 
yellow acacia comes drifting down to me as it 
waves far above the roof, and a perfumed, dusky 
red rose is peeping in at my window that has 
climbed story after story to add to the sweetness 
and fragrance that comes to my waking senses in 
the calm of early dawn; blessing me with the in- 
termingled sweetness, a balm and benediction in 
every breeze, like a breath of something not alto- 
gether of the earth. And I, too, like the pilgrims 
to Nikko in Japan, send up prayers with the in- 
cense of the rose and acacia and tender earth 
blossoms 



-95- 




MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

The Sea. 

Perched above the sea and the crowds of people 
I am enjoying the first, while studying the latter. 
Childhood and youth are there, some building 
castles and fortresses of sand, others romping in 
the waves racing along and leaving momentary 
prints of footsteps in the wet sand. In bunches 
huddled together or in detached aloofness, eager, 
listless or loitering in pleasant conversation, peo- 
ple who crowd the beach and board walk give 
themes for thought. One among the crowd ar- 
rested attention. She gave one the impression of 
swaying lilies as she stood young and trembling 
with her feet touching the waves, that were gently 
lapping the sand. One thought of wayside flow- 
ers apart from the flavors and savors of civiliza- 
tion. Her name should have been Narcissus. She 
seemed fit to be taken up bodily, placed in a dish 
and transferred to a cosy den to fill it with beauty 
and loveliness. Into a purer atmosphere, away 
from the talk, the chatter and lascivious watchful- 
ness of the men who were busy weaving their 
spider -like webs about the innocent and unsus- 
pecting. And most of all, from the caressing, octo- 
pus-like arms of those whose eyes had been 
opened, who had partaken of the tree of knowl- 
edge and experience, descendants of Eve who 
knew thoroughly the sinful streets of Ascalon and 
had apartments in Gath. The Philistines who. 
were clothed in purple and fine raiment, with every 
instinct enriched by knowledge and experienced- 
gained before youth's charms were past — welcom- 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

ing vice clothed in tweeds, goggles and automo- 
bile coats — and in the welcome, eagerly offering 
innocents as incense to warm vice 's cool altars. 
* * 
The Lakes of Killarney. 
Where thoughts fly back like homing birds and 
linger there amid scenes of loveliness hard to de- 
scribe. Where the wind comes fresh and pure 
from the higher peaks to the lower levels, and the 
sun sparkles on the gleaming lakes dotted with 
such dear little islands that are clothed in trees 
and verdure down to the water's edge; where one 
is struck by the wealth and beauty of foliage and 
undergrowth we on the Pacific shores know noth- 
ing about. The larches and beech trees are beau- 
tiful in their summer foliage, and the music of 
birds comes clear and sweet from swaying boughs 
and leafy coverts, the thrushes send sweet throaty 
gurgles and little jerky spasms of joy. The saucy 
robbins chirp everywhere. The blackbird's flute- 
like notes came from the marsh lands, tiny 
warblers from the dense holly trees sent little 
trills of joy and minor cadences that hurt and 
haunt one like the memory of some dimly remem- 
bered happiness, making the whole perfect in 
melody, song and rural beauty. Songs from birds 
and songs coming from the boatmen and drivers 
jogging lazily along in the jaunting cars, Irish 
songs, Irish wit and laughter, a quaint, lovable 
and good-hearted people they are, with a courage 
and spirit battling with poverty that commands 
unbounded admiration. 



— 97 — 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

Reminiscences of Jerusalem. 

Words Cannot describe the mingled emotions 
that fills one's heart while walking along the 
Via Dolorosa, or while standing on the old, old 
walls and looking down the slopes. There lies 
Gethsemane in the shadow with its gnarled trees, 
there, too, is Olivet and the sepulchral village of 
Siloam. Farther yet in the gloom pitted in the 
clefts and rocky hillsides is the leper village, 
where through the ages came the saddest cry 
the world has ever known, ''Unclean, unclean." 

The place overflows with thought. Looking 
down in the streets that are steep and stair-like, 
dirty and miserable, where are merchants, vend- 
ers of wares and beggars that plead for help — 
even as in the days that knew the sufferings on 
Calvary. On Mount Zion is the tomb of David; 
below the "Upper Room," where was held the 
Last Supper, and the house of Caiphus where 
Peter denied his Christ. 

Outside the walls one's interest does not flag. 
With bowed head one muses on Calvary and 
wanders along the road where went the three 
Wise Men, pausing at Rachael's tomb ; then resting 
awhile in Bethlehem, and in the gloaming look 
skyward, and starward, from the shepherds' field 
—where as of yore the flocks are quiet, beneath 
distorted, gnarled old olive trees. Bethany! 
Gilead ! and the Moab Mountains in the distance ! 



98 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

And the Dead Sea! a gleaming opal-tinted gem, 
flashes in the distance. Night over the Holy City 
where the dear Christ bore his burden up Cal- 
vary's slope, night — starlight — darkness, medita- 
tion and prayer. 

* * 

Point Sur Lighthouse. 

The winds came strong with a tang of salt 
from the sea stretching away in ghostlike gray- 
ness, a gray day and sea when everything seemed 
unreal. The ships out on the moving waters pass 
on phantom-like beyond the vision. I hear the 
booming breakers beating relentlessly on the rock- 
ribbed shores, and almost feel the resistless ebb 
and flow of the strong undertow that pulls the 
waters back, back from the rocky cliff where I 
sit secure while enjoying its strength and vast- 
ness. Impelled to come here and listen to the 
throbbing, tumultuous pulsings of the heart of 
the world of waters. Feeling in some way a part 
of the wild waste of waters, as if in some stage 
of far-off existence my life had been mixed with 
its turbulence, its strength and constancy. It 
draws me to it — even as the moon does the waters 
at high tide — and my soul responds to the ocean's 
enthralling power and charm. 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

The Big Basin. 

A place where one falls under the spell of the 
kineomatic color effect, and wondrous tapestry 
of glowing colors. A place where one merges 
from indifference to one of high thought and pur- 
pose. A place of worship and love for an eternal 
Beneficence who gave this place of delight, rest 
and coolness. There are faint pipings in the dis- 
tance, there are whisperings and ssh-ssh of fairy- 
like feet, faint, fainter then silence — silence that 
seems to enwrap and bless — that is the very es- 
sence of quietude and solemnity stealing into one's 
soul while resting under the great trees 1 that stand 
tip-toe touching the foamy, rose-tinted clouds with 
applauding hands. 

A place where the wind breathes in long, lazy 
sighs and the vines, wine-red, and flecked with 
Nature's paint brush, beckon one along blazoned 
ways. No cathedral ever equalled in solemnity 
and beauty these Anaks of the redwoods with 
their interlacing boughs and aisles misty, dim and 
redolent with nature's incense that seemed to say 
peace be with you. 

These great, brooding, druidical trees, speak- 
ing of centuries that have come and gone, that 
were here before the first Gothic arch reared 
itself upward, had joined their branches arch- 
wise and through their intermingled boughs and 
leaves, let the gold of sunshine and silver of 



— 100 — 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

moonbeams, filter through them in softened beau- 
ty down to an ideal world of infinite tenderness 
and brooding protectiveness that stirred the soul 
into a recognized presence of the Eternal. 



Plants are much like human beings — some are 
content to nestle within their boundary line or lim- 
itations, others reach out like the bougainvillea 
and peep at the world, spurning barriers. In riot- 
ous disorder they overcome decency, order or 
boundaries; spilling over trellises and old stone 
walls, they flaunt to the outside world their wealth 
of color, bloom and beauty. If it is warmth, free- 
dom and sunshine they seek, be they plants or 
human beings, why not? Is it perverse human 
nature that makes one pine for something other 
than we have, causing us to yearn for the other 
side of the barrier, wishing for the shadowy un- 
known dangers and delights that lie always in 
that unknown, untraveled space beyond us? Is it 
perversity or plain plant nature that makes them 
aspire, run riot and flaunt their gorgeousness to 
the beholder and, bursting their seed-pods, send 
the tiny seeds winging their way to unknown 
places where they find in the warm earth a wel- 
come, and thus scattered, beautify wherever they 
grow. 



— 101 




111 



EMORY'S POTLATCHES 



In the Sierras. 
Idling away hours when the time card seemed 
drawn on a limitless future, forgetful of everyday- 
life in the magic of the untrodden mountain 
spaces, feeling the purity of the heights, a heart 
and soul infiltration sifts into one's being 
through the benign influence of the mountains. 
Away from the lower levels where the earth is 
poisoned by humanity, from the fever of unrest, 
the blackened vapors, the dust and soot of traffic 
and having in exchange the odorous winds that 
play soft, sweet, nameless melodies while bringing 
the breath of pines, and the flowers that bloom in 
beauty where no destroying, aimless feet have 
trod. Lured to heavenly rest by the call of soft, 
woodland murmurings, the hurry of printless feet, 
of timid denizens of this fairyland by the sweet 
applause of countless leaf hands, it is surely worth 
while to live near the heart of nature rather than 
wear out one's short life in the world's levels 
seeking for supremacy, money and position. 



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The Roman Campagna. 

Remembrance is sweet of days wandering in 
charmed places, resting in wayside cafes, perched 
on hillside with pergolas twined about with grape- 
vines, while saucy bacchanalian faces smeared 
with the purple juice of grapes were peering 
through the vines. It is good to sit with the fresh, 
vagrant winds bringing cool breaths from the 
Appennines and odors delicately sweet from the 
breath of lilies that were sirening in soft tones of 



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— 102 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

the joy of life, the joy of living while we partook 
of the wild fragoles, soup and spaghetti that is 
"cooka" with a faint odor of garlic mixed with 
other mysterious but more agreeable odors, and 
with strange little relishes that come and makes 
one indifferent to which comes first, the soup or 
dessert. The food is not so important, but looking 
over and away from the Campagna westward you 
take your coffee with a saddened heart as you 
take your farewell of the simple and lovable life 
in Italy. 

Formulas and rules have no place in the glori- 
ous synthesis which is creation either of a world 
or a flower. We do not know why or how it is 
done, and it is well perhaps to eschew needless 
formulas, to abjure useless rules and burdens; in 
so doing one can feel young and close up to some 
sort of a dear, good world that is beautiful and 
worth living in, then one can feel there are 
oases, rippling brooks and cool, deep pools in the 
drifting sands of life — salaaming to the real or 
unreal — being indifferent to either condition. 



Some of us, no matter how we strive, cannot 
entirely slough the skin of original sin, but find 
shreds of it still hanging to our best intentions. 
Yet surely efforts are not entirely futile. It is 
worth something to try to get rid of the old and 
put on the new, whether it be a new skin or other- 
wise. 



103 — 




MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 



Equality. 

Equality of opportunity and of pleasure with 
men seems to be the cry of the twentieth century 
woman. The voice of the church that was un- 
questioned in by-gone times is not heeded now, 
and even the echo is lost in the social revolution 
that has enabled women to obliterate rules and 
customs that were made for women only. A so- 
cial revolution that has permitted her to spurn 
the old regime and accept the present and saner 
age of logic wherein she claims the right to think 
for herself and in the logical standard of conduct 
that is not blinded by past rules and customs she, 
with open eyes and unbiased mind, wends her 
way bravely along. Feeling in the eyes of a just 
God there is no dividing line — that wrong is 
wrong — regardless of sex — knowing, too, that man 
has had a mistaken idea of his importance and has 
taken upon himself in ages past the right to do 
as he wished, living according to man made laws 
and customs, claiming because of them, if he 
chose to do wrong — being a man — it was right to 
do so. 



— 104 — 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 



Strive to be worthy of the place the gods have 
assigned you. 

Strive to help others and lighten the shadows 
that enwrap them. 

Strive to make memories of deeds done, step- 
ping stones to a higher and better existence ; and 
you will not only be better and happier, — but will 
help the world and make it all the more livable 
and lovable because you have lived. 



'I drifted content on the still lagoon, 

In a shallow craft that was rudely wrought, 
Till I heard one day the luring rune, 

That a vagrant wind from the ocean brought. 
And never again could I slowly drift, 

And never again could I feel content, 
Till I sailed away on the current swift, 

And learned what the song of the ocean meant. ' ' 



— 105 



MEMORY'S POTLATCHES 

The Ocean's Spell. 

I have sailed and know the ocean well, 

Felt its troubled fury when waves beat high; 

Knew its moods, its strength and wondrous spell, 
Its angry defiance and its softest sigh. * * * # 







I have heard the winds moaning, sobbing far 
above me in the ship's rigging, felt the ocean's 
breeze and its gentle little pats, heard it croon 
and whisper while watching the red wine of sun- 
sets splashed like crushed heart's blood against a 
dull gray sky. I have heard the song, faintly 
sweet, like the soft tinkle of bells, announcing the 
elevation of the Host. I have learned the ocean's 
wordless tune, its call, its power, its force that 
tempts, compels one to answer, to respond without 
power to resist its fascination and its enthrall- 
ments. * * * * 



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I have learned the song, I know what it meant — 
And the Viking's spirit holds me fast, 

I know in my heart the message sent, 
The song and music while life shall last 

Will sweeten each day and brighten each night. 

But I listened too long to the ocean's rune, 
And floated too far on its currents swift; 

Too far from the peace of the old lagoon, 
Too far to return and dream and drift. 






— 106 — 



MEMORY 



POTLATCHES 



VI 



An Empty Boat. 

Lying in dumb desolation on the golden- 
rimmed sands in the yellow gleam of sunsets. 
Silent, in the silver nights when the mother moon 
drenches it in a sheen of light. Resting, with its 
prow pointing to the foolish waves leaping up 
trying to kiss the moon. Quiet, with its sub- 
merged anchor waiting for the day when the 
sands shall loose their seal. 

It is only — 

An empty boat left on Life's ford, 
Its garnered sheaves lost overboard, 

The sheaves of joy, of love and pride, 
Held fast by Memory's restless tide. 




107 



DEC 22 19:3 




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